


Whiskey Tango Foxtrot

by drop_an_idea_on_a_page



Series: Sua Sponte That Sh*t [6]
Category: Justified
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-27
Updated: 2015-07-27
Packaged: 2018-04-11 14:02:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 40,483
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4438232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drop_an_idea_on_a_page/pseuds/drop_an_idea_on_a_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What motivates a man:  money, respect, loyalty, trust?  A contract killer is pulling jobs in Kentucky and his skills point to military training.  And Tim Gutterson fits the profile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Another one originally posted a few years ago (2012) on FF.net. Having fun with the underused sniper.

* * *

Fingers tingling, he held his gun pointed at the door. Something had woken him. The adrenalin echoed harshly off his skeleton, rattled around his skull. He steadied his breathing, steadied his aim. The phone rang a second time.

"Fuck," he cursed to the dark room and let his arm drop. He set the handgun on the bedside table and picked up his cell.

"What?" he snapped, sinking down onto the bed. Miljana slid over to his side, confiscating his pillow, and snaked an arm up his shirt to rub his back. She was giggling, shaking the bed. He turned to glare at her but the effort was wasted. She couldn't see his face in the dark.

"I need your help, Tim." Raylan didn't waste any time getting to the point.

"Raylan? What the fuck? What time is it?"

"Eleven-thirty. I'll be there in five minutes."

Tim set the phone down and rubbed tiredly at his face. He had gone to bed early trying to catch up on some missed sleep, but apparently the world had other plans for him tonight. He let Miljana pull him back into bed and half drape herself on top of him. She listened to his heart beating too quickly, still in go mode, and reached up to smooth his hair, soothing.

His hands drifted longingly over soft skin and he sighed, "I gotta go."

"Mm-mmm," she mumbled a negative and locked her arm around his waist.

"Uh-huh," he responded and man-handled her off him. He kissed her and got up quickly before she could cast a spell to keep him there, grabbed what he needed and dressed on the way down the stairs.

He unlocked the front door then went to the fridge to grab a snack, drinking orange juice straight out of the container, eyeing his coffee maker wistfully. Raylan let himself in and walked to the kitchen with a cup of take-out.

"Did I wake you?" he asked and handed Tim the cup, noting the dark house, Tim's hair sticking up at funny angles. "You sounded pretty out of it on the phone."

"Thank you," Tim said gratefully accepting the coffee, feeling the question didn't really need answering. "So what's up?"

"It's Loretta, Loretta McCready," Raylan explained. "She's gone missing. Somebody's after the money."

"The money?" Tim repeated, confused. "You sure she's not just out partying?"

"I'll explain in the car. We need to go by the office and get your rifle."

Tim scratched his head then passed Raylan his cup. "I've got one here. Hold on."

He headed into the basement and came up again quickly with a small carry sack over his shoulder and a rifle bag, taking the steps two at a time, catching the urgency in Raylan's voice.

"Okay, let's go." He took back his coffee and followed Raylan out.

Driving through town to the interstate, Raylan reluctantly explained to Tim the mystery of the Bennett money. He felt he owed him that much, dragging him out of bed and down to Harlan. He was reasonably confident that Tim would see the rightness of it and keep the secret, but he paused uneasily when he'd finished the story, waiting for his partner's response. Tim chewed on the information for a bit, then nodded and commented that it was as good a place as any for the ill-gotten funds to land, a kind of life insurance payout for her father's murder.

"Better than going to the government," Tim stated, summing up his feelings on the matter. "That is, as long as Loretta doesn't have ambitions to become the next Mags Bennett. How do you know she's in trouble? She call you?"

"No. It was Limehouse that called," said Raylan. "He and Loretta have an arrangement of sorts."

"So why isn't he looking after this?"

"Limehouse knows better than to try and deal with a hostage situation." Raylan paused. "Funny thing," he added, "he's the one that suggested I call you." He looked curiously over at Tim. "He said it so casual, kind of familiar, like you two've been hanging out, all buddy-buddy."

"Oh yeah, sure. Every Sunday. Early morning distance shooting at the range, then church and brunch," Tim replied sarcastically.

"I can almost picture it," Raylan chuckled then concentrated on his driving. He was going well over the posted speed limit until they hit the interstate. After that he sped up.

"Where are we heading?" Tim asked, already knowing but wanting confirmation or maybe just conversation to keep himself awake.

"Harlan."

"Yep," Tim sighed and leaned his head on the window, "I figured. And according to you I get to blame Limehouse for this?"

"I'd've called you anyway, so go ahead and complain to me if you want."

"Why me?" Tim whined.

"Because the Tim model comes with a rifle. And besides, you and I have enough dirt between us to fling around, I knew I could count on your discretion or lack thereof, depending on the need," explained Raylan.

"Uh-huh. Well, I'd've come anyway. She's what? Fifteen now, maybe?"

"Sixteen, I think, just."

 _Sixteen_ , thought Tim. Two more years and she'd be an adult. And then what? She'd already been picked up a half dozen times for possession, dealing, but always let off easy. There wasn't a law enforcement officer in Eastern Kentucky who hadn't heard her story, wasn't keeping an eye on her. Usually, she'd just get a stern word. The rare time there was an arrest and her name appeared on their docket, the judges in the Juvenile Court never hesitated to sign off on a diversion agreement. She could probably get away with murder, Tim figured, at least until she turned eighteen.

You just don't come out unscathed from the experiences she'd had in her short life. Tim was oddly grateful for his less than ideal childhood, some bad times, but nothing like that, no horrors until later, when he was an adult and supposedly better able to cope. Aloud he commented to Raylan, "All that money and she can't even buy herself some peace."

"Worst part is, someone's always going to be after her for it, thinking it'll solve all their problems," Raylan replied and stepped a little harder on the gas. "People never learn."

"If the money's such a secret, how did whoever's got her find out about it?"

"Dickie Bennett, more than likely. That idiot can't keep his mouth shut," Raylan snarled.

"You want me to take care of that problem for you? I could do it when he's in the exercise yard," Tim mused, planning it out in his head. "Set myself up a mile or so out. I could be gone before anyone realized that someone didn't just stick him with a shiv. Pick a good day and it'd be pretty easy shot actually. And no one would look too hard into it, seeing how he's such a scumbag."

Tim spun his proposal and Raylan found himself leaning into it. He shook himself mentally and looked over at Tim to see if he was serious. Tim was watching him with a half grin, a funny look in his eye. Raylan chuckled dryly.

"Don't tempt me," he said through his teeth. "There are just too many reasons why I'd like to see him dead."

"Yeah, well, you couldn't afford to hire me," Tim joked.

Or was he joking, Raylan wondered briefly. He found Tim hard to read sometimes, the graveyard humor occasionally cutting a little too close to the line. "You wouldn't do it for free?" he tossed out casually.

"Nope."

"Not even for me?"

"Especially not for you," Tim replied. "I'm going to grab some sleep. Wake me when we're there."

He wormed his way over the seats and stretched out in the back.

"I need you alert, Tim."

"I'll be fine."

They made good time down to Harlan. Traffic was light at that hour. Raylan called back to Tim when he pulled off the main road onto a dirt lane that snaked up into a small holler. He watched in the rearview mirror as Tim sat bolt upright, looking around blearily then opened his pack and pulled out a protein bar and some water, offering some to Raylan.

"No thanks," he declined.

A mile up the road Raylan stopped the car, killed the engine and checked his phone. No reception. No surprise. He turned to Tim and said, "Looks like we're on our own," and tossed the cell on the dash.

Tim just nodded, unzipped the rifle case and started putting his weapon together.

Raylan turned around in his seat and eyed the rifle, noting the camouflage pattern, not the standard USMS black. "Is that yours?" he asked.

"Long story, but yeah," Tim answered, stuffing an extra magazine and some loose rounds into his pocket. "What's the plan?"

"We wait for one of Limehouse's men to meet us," Raylan explained. "He'll take us to the house where they have her."

"Do you trust Limehouse? How do you know this isn't a set up?"

"I don't. But why would Limehouse suggest I bring you if it was?"

"I dunno," Tim shrugged. "Maybe he and Doyle were Bridge partners and now he hasn't won a game in a year. He's so pissed at me for shooting him, he's willing to take out two marshals to get revenge."

"Maybe he's annoyed that you haven't been back down for some barbecue in a while," suggested Raylan. "You probably helped his diner break even for the year with that one meal you had."

Tim grinned. "Maybe he's open late and I can make it up to him right now. I'm hungry. Do you think he'd deliver?"

He opened the door and stepped out onto the road to stretch. Raylan followed and grabbed a vest out of the trunk. He handed one to Tim and double-checked his sidearm. Tim set his rifle down on the back seat, slipped into his vest and checked his Glock as well. He then picked up his rifle and snapped in a magazine. Satisfied, they closed up the car, leaned against the hood and waited.

* * *

It was Limehouse himself who appeared down the road and waved to them. They walked up to meet him.

"Sorry to drag you out at this hour, Marshal, Deputy Gutterson," Limehouse said when they approached. "My information came too late to stop this before it started."

"It's okay. We're all doing this for Loretta," Raylan replied. "How did you find out she was in trouble?"

"I told her if anyone ever threatened her to tell them that I still handle the money. That way they have to call me," he explained. "She's a good girl. She does what she's told."

"I don't know about good, but she's definitely smart," Raylan commented. "Is she okay?"

"She'll be fine till tomorrow at noon. That's when I'm supposed to hand over the funds. Meantime, she and her friend are the guests of some old associates of the Bennetts', from down Tennessee way. I don't think they'll do them any harm," Limehouse predicted, "yet. But men'll do crazy things for that kind of money, as you already know."

"How many of them are there?" asked Tim.

"Four of your bullets ought to do it," Limehouse summed up, smiling at the younger marshal. "Is your trigger finger itchin'?"

Tim raised an eyebrow. "I'm itching to get back to bed," he replied blandly. "I'm more of a morning person."

Limehouse chuckled softly, "Well, these fellows shouldn't be too much trouble for you marshals. The only tricky part is those two girls mixed up together with them."

"Who's the other girl?" asked Raylan.

"Old school friend of Loretta's. Her foster family brings her to Harlan to visit her once a month. I'm guessing someone knew the schedule 'cause the men picked them up wandering around this evening. The girls were eyeing up some mischief, I reckon."

"I doubt this is what they had in mind," Raylan commented.

Limehouse pointed down the road. "There's only one house on this lane. You can't miss it. My men'll be watching both ends, making sure no one gets out but you."

Raylan nodded. "Send someone to call the locals, but wait an hour. It'll give me time to chat with Loretta."

"I'll do that. Good luck to you." Limehouse turned and walked back the way he came.

"Raylan, why don't we have a team in here?" Tim demanded.

"The fewer people who know about the money, the safer it is for Loretta," Raylan answered. "You and I can handle this."

* * *

 


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

"Careful with that," Tim chided. He had passed a night scope from his bag to Raylan who fumbled it. "It's worth over a month's take-home pay. I'll shoot you if you drop it."

Raylan glared at him. "Well, how did you get this one then?"

Tim wagged his head, trying to work up a believable explanation. He settled on a one word answer. "Donations."

Tim's one word answers irritated the hell out of Raylan, but he suffered it tonight. He had more important things to think about. They'd been surveilling the small Kentucky house for almost an hour, not wanting to rush in and endanger the girls. The occupants were restless and awake and the lights were on, illuminating the interior enough that the Marshals had been able to make out Loretta and her friend tied up in the back bedroom with one of the men, and the other three playing cards in the front.

Tim pointed out motion-sensor flood lights recently installed on the old house, front and back, standing out like a Rolex on a hobo. There was no easy way to take them both out at the same time, so he suggested shooting the main electrical feed and bringing down the power to the entire house. Raylan balked at the idea, not liking to be completely in the dark when he breached the back door until Tim produced a pair of night vision goggles from the bag he was carrying. Raylan raised his eyebrows, but accepted them. He tried them on and gave Tim the thumbs up.

Raylan would go in alone and locate the girls; the sniper would cover as always. It made sense, especially tonight since Loretta trusted Raylan as much as she could ever trust anyone. Once Raylan had taken out the man in the bedroom, Tim would come in the front. They could use flashlights then to their advantage; make use of the confusion.

Tim set himself up in a position to cover the front and back, with a clear shot through the bedroom window. Raylan moved around to get as close as he could to the back door before Tim turned out the lights. The utility pole was so close, Tim couldn't miss. He aimed confidently and hit the connector first shot, sending out a shower of sparks. Raylan started moving as the wire fell to the ground and the house went dark. Tim had chambered another round and was looking through his night scope into the bedroom before Raylan burst through the door.

Tim heard two gun shots, caught a glimpse of muzzle flare then saw Raylan, his back to him, inside the bedroom with the girls, covering the door. He flicked on the safety and shouldered his rifle at a full run pulling his sidearm as he reached the house.

As soon as Raylan heard Tim kick his way in the front he came out of the bedroom with his handgun and a flashlight. Shots hit the door frame, high, wild and to the right and Tim returned fire. A man dropped and Raylan shouted for the remaining two to put down their weapons and surrender. They had no hostages, no safe exit; in the harsh glare of two flashlights, squinting, they complied meekly.

Raylan tossed a pair of handcuffs to Tim and covered him while he restrained and searched the two on their stomachs in the front room then checked the other one, the one on his back not moving. When Raylan was sure everything was secure, he left Tim guarding and went to help the girls.

Loretta's friend was sobbing hysterically, but Loretta just looked bored and she rolled her eyes in disdain for Raylan to see when he walked back in the bedroom and flashed a light on them. He would have laughed at her expression if he hadn't had to step over a body to see it.

"I thought it was you, Marshal," Loretta said when he untied her. "I recognized the hat."

"That's why I wore it," he stated. "Are you okay?"

"It's kind of you to ask. I'm fine," she replied blandly.

"What's your friend's name, Loretta?"

"Stephanie. Had I known she'd be reacting like this I'd've gone out by myself tonight."

Raylan felt suddenly like his world was tilting sideways. There was something in her mannerism, her tone, that reminded him of Tim. The realization struck him hard and he stared shocked at Loretta until Stephanie's sobs brought him back to the room.

"Are _you_ okay, Marshal?" Loretta asked, cocking her head and giving him a wry look and a snort.

"Yeah," he replied, still dazed.

He gently untied the other girl and put a hand on her shoulder, holding her still. "Stephanie," he said calmly, "I'm Deputy Marshal Raylan Givens. You're safe now and I'll be taking you and Loretta home just as soon as I can. Would you like to come outside?"

The girl seemed mesmerized by his calm assurance, sniffled and nodded. He led them to the back door, lifting Stephanie over the body. Loretta stepped around, indifferent to the corpse, and held the door open while Raylan led the other girl out. He walked them to the front and they sat on the steps.

"I'm sorry this happened, Loretta," Raylan said.

She shrugged, her face jaded, frown seemingly permanent. "Hardly your fault."

"I think it's best, Loretta, that the money not be discussed with anyone beyond our little group here," Raylan stated. "Do you think you could convince your friend to keep it quiet from the police? I'll talk to the men who kidnapped you, make sure they know better than to speak of it to anyone else."

"I reckon she'd agree to anything right now if I promised her it'd get her home," Loretta replied.

Raylan raised his eyebrows, surprised she could be so matter-of-fact. "Okay, then. Stay here. I'm going inside to discuss the situation with my partner and the other men. I'll be right back."

He stood up and looked at the girls for a moment, then walked inside. Tim was sitting on the couch, his rifle resting on his lap, sidearm held loosely, watching the two men laying face-down on the floor. Now that the business was over, he appeared to have shut down all unnecessary functions, quiet, still, bored. He moved his head slightly to look up at Raylan.

"Girls okay?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yeah," Raylan replied, equally quietly.

It was hard not to speak softly. Except for the nervous breathing of the men cuffed on the floor, the house was silent, deprived of the continuous hum of electricity. Illuminated by the beams from the flashlights, the scene was like a surreal stage-drama with the actors behaving unnaturally. Tim spoke his lines.

"I feel like I'm back in Afghanistan, except this couch is way too comfortable. Had I known before we left that the night was going to go like this, I'd've worn my cammo."

Raylan stared. If he closed his eyes…Loretta or Tim?

"Are _you_ okay, Raylan?" Tim asked, cocking his head and giving him a wry look and a snort.

"Actually, you and Loretta are kind of freaking me out."

He looked at Tim strangely for another moment then shook it off. He stepped over to their captives, grabbed the first one by the arms and hauled him over.

"Give me a hand, Tim, will you? I need to have a word with our friends here."

Tim huffed and dragged himself off the couch and mimicked Raylan's actions with the second man. When they were both propped sitting against the wall, Raylan squatted down in front of them and eyed them for a minute.

"Well, aren't you two the bright pair? You're still breathing," he congratulated them, lining his voice with an unspoken threat. "I need to know why you think that girl out there has any money, because she doesn't, you hear me?"

He pressed his lips thin into a frown and gave them a pointed look, willing them to get what he wasn't saying.

"We got the information from a reliable source," one of them said with the confidence of ignorance.

"Really? You're really this dumb?" Raylan shook his head.

Tim wandered back over to the couch and plunked himself down, already bored with the conversation.

"Dickie Bennett has been telling idiots like you tall tales about his family money since he got sent up again."

"No, really. He told us the whole story. He knows where it is."

Raylan looked back at Tim and closed his eyes. Tim wished he could close his eyes, too, but felt it prudent for one of them to keep them open. He took a deep breath and willed his eyelids up. Raylan turned back to the two men and flicked the talker on the forehead.

"Thank you for giving up your _reliable source_ ," he mocked. "You two are going up for kidnapping. You haven't a hope in hell of getting out of it. When you're in that federal prison system, you'd best keep your mouths shut tight about any rumors about any money in the hands of a fifteen-year-old girl." The lie slid off his tongue easily. "If I get a hint that you blabbed about it, I'm going to start a rumor of my own. Only my rumor is going to be about two men who raped two under aged girls in a shack in Kentucky." He blinked at each one in turn. "Do we have an understanding?"

"But we never touched them!"

"That's why we call it a rumor, dipshit," Raylan explained, smiling. "'Cause it's unsubstantiated. But I find folks are willing to believe just about anything if it's spoken to them out the side of your mouth and if it's ugly enough."

After the conversation, the two men were willing participants in Raylan's odd collaboration between the kidnappers, the kidnappees and Tim. Loretta and Stephanie, more excited now by the night's events than traumatized, found the game of 'lie to the police' amusing and were happy to play along. Tim just stared at Raylan with a mixture of disbelief and resignation. Raylan took Tim's silence as consent.

"Thank you, Thomas More," Raylan said sarcastically to the younger Marshal and walked out to greet the Sheriff.

Tim watched him saunter to the door. "You know they cut off his head in the end," he called after him.

Raylan stopped and looked back. "Whose head?"

"Thomas More's."

* * *

 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Raylan walked the scene with the Sheriff, describing the events as they played out. Once the men in custody were handed over to the local deputies, Tim made himself scarce, grabbing his bag and rifle and hiking back down the road to get the car. He parked it at the foot of the yard and sat sideways in the driver's seat with the door open, staying out of the beams from the cruisers' headlights which were illuminating the house. He idly watched the activity until Raylan waved him over.

"I explained to the Sheriff how we ended up here," Raylan directed him. "But they'd appreciate it if you'd describe your part in it."

Tim nodded and went through his rehearsed lines.

Raylan, the night's director, stood to chat a little longer with the Sheriff and watched the players. He glanced over at Tim who was waving his arm, illustrating his actions for the benefit of the deputy taking notes. He looked for the girls next, and spotted them sitting in the back of one of the cruisers. He eyed them curiously, amazed at how much older Loretta looked, of course the stage make-up added on a few years. Girls grow up quickly, he thought. He noticed her wiping at her eyes.

"Excuse me," he said and motioned over to them. "I'm just going to check up on Loretta."

It appeared the night had finally worn her down. A drop of salt water was making an attempt to escape Loretta's life, leaving a streak of sorrow down her cheek. Her frown was crumbling, and Stephanie, reversing roles, had a thin arm wrapped around her friend.

Raylan checked his watch. It was almost 4am. Opening the cruiser door, he leaned in and said, "Hang in there girls. Someone should be able to take you home soon."

"Can't we go home now?" Stephanie pleaded, looking close to tears again.

"Marshal," Loretta pleaded, voice hitching, "can you take us home?"

Tim walked in, stage left, and Raylan turned to the Sheriff, "Tim's done, so why don't we head out and drop the girls off on the way. It's been a long night for them."

"As long as you don't mind. Or I can get one of my boys to run them home."

"I want to go with the marshals," Loretta sniffed.

"Well, all right," agreed the Sheriff. "I know how to reach you all if I have any questions. Go on, then."

Raylan steered Loretta and Stephanie to his car, closing out the drama, Tim following. The girls settled into the back seat and Tim slumped tiredly in the front. They weren't ten minutes down the road when it became evident to Raylan that Loretta and Stephanie were acting out a play within a play and had manipulated them all. Teenage girls were good at it according to Art, so Raylan tried not to feel bad.

"Seems a damn shame that our whole night was wasted being kidnapped," said Loretta. She was back in character, miraculously dry-eyed and with the usual cynicism. "We didn't get to have any fun, did we, Steph?"

"None at all," her friend whined on cue. "I was hoping for a party tonight."

"I had no idea being kidnapped would be so boring," Loretta included in her complaint. "You Marshals didn't enjoy yourselves neither, I'm sure. Why, we'd like to make it up to you, seeing as there's still some night left."

"Hey, yeah," cooed Stephanie leaning into the front seat between Tim and Raylan, purposely rubbing an arm up against each of them. "We could have some fun. I mean, we don't really want to go home. Come on, there's two of us and two of you. Two boys and two girls. That sounds like a party."

"Holy shit, she can count." Saying it in a quiet voice but screaming scorn, Tim had a hand up massaging the bridge of his nose then his forehead, tense. He had shimmied closer to the door to get away from Stephanie. His hair was sticking up even more now, a cornered badger.

"What do you say, boys?" Loretta cajoled. "I've got some good weed, and we know a nice place to park."

Raylan swore expressively to himself and glanced sharply sideways over at Tim, willing him not to react. He rolled down the window, hoping to air out the tension. A hot summer night, an exhausted partner and two bored, hormonal teenage girls without a decent role model between them; this was not what Raylan had scripted. He caught the angry motion of arms crossing tightly over a chest and unconsciously held a hand out toward Tim, placating.

"That's enough now, Loretta," Raylan scolded. "We're taking you home and that's that."

"Awww. But it's very private," added Stephanie, reaching over and running her fingers up the back of Tim's neck.

Tim jerked his head forward and whipped around to look at her. "Fucking don't touch me," he snapped and shouldered open the car door. Raylan slammed on the brakes and skidded as Tim jumped out, stumbling to regain his balance with the car still moving.

"What the fuck, Tim?" he growled, but the door slammed shut and he was dismissed with an angry wave.

Raylan hesitated, not sure what to do. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw Tim pacing, agitated and red in the brake lights, his back to them, clenching his hands into fists. Raylan decided to leave it alone for now, pulled back onto the road and kept driving.

The girls giggled and whispered and Stephanie leaned forward again and said in his ear, "Three works for us."

"Just shut up," he replied tiredly, wishing he'd let one of the Sheriff's men take the girls home.

* * *

Tim had covered a fair distance by the time Raylan drove back to pick him up. He pulled a u-turn, and stopped beside him. Without a word, Tim opened the car door and settled into the passenger seat.

They rode in silence out of Harlan toward the interstate. Raylan expected Tim to nod off, but he just sat staring out the window at the landscape as it turned from black to grey to the dusky colors of pre-dawn. Spotting a McDonald's outside of Corbin, Raylan pulled into the parking lot, rolled the windows down and left Tim in the car. He came back ten minutes later with coffee and breakfast for them both and handed Tim his share.

"You okay?" Raylan asked finally, breaking the silence after watching Tim pick at his food, concerned that he wasn't eating.

"Seems to be the popular question tonight."

"Yep," Raylan agreed. "You know, in the few years I've been working with you, I've seen you angry like that maybe, what…I'm thinking hard here…twice?"

Tim looked over at him for the first time in an hour.

"Art tells me you're scary when you're angry," Raylan added lightly.

"Why would he say that?" Tim asked, looking hurt.

"I think he was worried I was pushing your buttons a while back," Raylan replied, grinning, trying to take the bite out of the comment. "He thought I didn't take your military training seriously enough for my own good."

The snort from the passenger seat settled one thing for Raylan, that maybe Art was right.

"Art doesn't need to worry." Tim looked over again, a bit of humor back in his eyes. "Yeah, Raylan, you annoy me sometimes, and I might want to shoot you, kind of like swatting a fly, but I don't ever feel the urge to beat you to death."

"There's a difference?"

The way Tim responded, Raylan felt like he'd just confessed to being a virgin. "Yeah. Huge."

"I always thought dead was dead."

"Uh-uh," Tim disagreed emphatically. "No, it's not." He tilted his head, staring at some shadow in the distance. "You shoot a man from a thousand yards, that's way different than shooting him from one yard. And killing someone with your bare hands, well that's different again. That's feeling it."

Raylan knew academically that what Tim was saying was true, but always being on the right side of the law he had never considered the difference from a more intimate perspective. He weighed the statement and wondered what he was capable of, what Tim was capable of. There was a question he wanted to ask but didn't dare. He decided to bring the conversation back to this particular night in Kentucky.

"The girls, they, uh, well…it's disappointing," Raylan stumbled, not sure how else to describe their behavior. "You're telling me you wanted to beat them to death?"

"Oh, come on, seriously? No," Tim huffed. "I just hate the lack of respect. I mean, shit, those guys were shooting at us. The girls, it was all a fucking game to them. It pissed me off."

"I noticed."

"I hate losing it like that. Shit, I just wanted to …" He left off the rest, his voice distressed and edgy. Tim let his head drop.

"But you didn't," Raylan noted. "That makes all the difference."

"Maybe." He didn't sound convinced.

"You over it?"

"I ran it off."

Raylan raised his eyebrows. "Explains how you got so far."

Tim finally took a bite of his breakfast.

"You ever think you might hit your girl?" Raylan prodded, worried.

Tim chewed, swallowed, replied, "No, never." He was oddly grateful for the question, relieved to be able to say it out loud.

Raylan heard the truth and the confidence and was satisfied.

"This job gets to you sometimes," Raylan offered up, "the people you got to deal with. Hell, I kicked Johnny Crowder out of his wheelchair. Not my proudest moment, but I was angry." He'd lost his appetite for breakfast, too, and set it down to pick up his coffee. "You're fine, Tim. But if it ever creeps into your personal life, talk to somebody. Me, Art, I don't care who. You hear me?"

Tim nodded.

Raylan watched the younger Marshal for a moment longer, measuring. "You know," he said finally, letting his gaze wander around the empty parking lot, "Dewey Crowe once told me he grew up here in Corbin. Apparently he still has some kin nearby." He looked back at Tim, waiting for a reaction. He didn't have to wait long.

"Fuck, Raylan, roll up the windows, quick. I didn't bring my bio-hazard suit."

It lacked the usual enthusiasm, but it would do. Raylan smiled and started the car.

"You want me to drive?" Tim offered.

"No offence, but no thanks. I don't want to end up eating the guard rail. You look like an extra from the _Dawn of the Living Dead._ Home or office?"

Tim ran his hands roughly through his hair and over his face, trying to rub away the frustration and disgust. "Home first. I need a shower."

* * *

 


	4. Chapter 4

* * *

 

She was reaching for the door to leave for work when Tim pushed it open from the other side. Just one look at his face and she knew it'd been a rough night. Miljana wished she didn't have appointments this morning and could get him talking. If he were independently wealthy, she thought, he could keep her on retainer. Or, if she were independently wealthy, she could volunteer as his personal psychologist. It'd keep her busy. But he wasn't and she wasn't and they needed the money from her work, too.

"I'm guessing that Raylan didn't take you to one of those 24-hour bowling lanes?" she joked lightly.

Tim set down his bags and buried his nose in her hair. She took that as a no, set down her bag and wrapped her arms around him.

"Are you going back to work?" she asked.

"Mm-hmm."

"Yuck."

"Mm."

"I know we talked about going out tonight but it's so embarrassing when you use your pasta for a pillow. What do you say I pick up something and we eat at home?"

He pulled back to look at her. "Probably a good idea."

"Call me when you're leaving work. I've got to go or I'll be late." She kissed him and reluctantly headed to her car.

"I was going to order steak," he called after her, hoping to see her smile.

She turned and grinned and his day turned around with it.

Tim carried his bags downstairs and meticulously cleaned and checked his gear and rifle before locking it all up. Satisfied he went up to the kitchen and put on some coffee, continued upstairs and had a shower.

He came back down ten minutes later and almost exploded out of his skin when he spotted a man sitting at his kitchen table. He reached for a sidearm that wasn't there.

"Hey," a voice sang out and Tim Weaver, his CIA friend, jumped up from his chair and came around to meet him. "What the fuck, dude? You're wound a little tight. Good thing I didn't surprise you in the shower with a kitchen knife. You might've had a heart attack." He came at Tim like Norman Bates from _Psycho_.

"If you'd snuck upstairs, I'd've shot you," Tim pointed out, exasperated.

He let Weaver grab him in a bear hug then pat his cheek affectionately.

"You look like crap," Weaver commented. "Married life not agreeing with you?"

"I'm not married."

"Church is just a formality, dude. You've got the haggard look of a married man."

"Actually, this is the haggard look of a sleep-deprived Marshal."

Weaver tut-tutted, his face a portrait of dismay. "Denial then submission. I've seen it before."

"You are so fucking annoying." A grin finally splashed across Tim's face. He couldn't help himself; he was happy to see his friend and wanted to kill him just the same. "You know, it's been over a year. Have you made any kind of arrangements to get someone to call me or something? If anything happens to you it's not like I'll come across it in the obituaries."

"I'd hate to leave you pining for me."

"It's more that I'd like to know I could finally relax in my own house."

"You make a good point," Weaver conceded. "Let me think about it."

"What are you doing here?" Tim asked, pouring two coffees and corralling Weaver to the table.

"Flying through Standiford on my way…somewhere," he explained without explaining. "Had a couple hours between flights so I thought I'd grab a car and say hi."

"Uh-huh." Tim didn't believe a word of it. He felt like Art talking to Raylan. Actually he felt like himself talking to Raylan. "How are you surviving in the clandestine business when you're this bad a liar?"

"I get by on charm," he grinned.

"Uh-huh."

"Not buying that either, huh?" Weaver laughed. "No, seriously, I, uh, just wanted to see how you were doing."

"Uh-huh."

"Uh-huh."

Weaver dropped the grin, scratched his head and sipped at his coffee. He tapped the table with a pencil he'd picked up, dropped it again and rubbed the back of his neck. Finally he looked up at Tim, leaned in and said earnestly, "Dude, you're on a list."

Waiting for Weaver to get to the point was exhausting and Tim had drooped and propped his chin on his hand. The statement did little to revive him. "I'm probably on lots of lists, just not the lists I want to be on, like the Hollywood A-list," he responded dully.

"Look, you've got some shit coming your way, but don't worry about it," Weaver supplied, leaving Tim a puzzle. "It's not you they want."

"Great," Tim sighed. " _Now_ I'm worried."

"Well, don't be. I said it's not you. You don't miss." With that, he stood up. "Gotta go."

"That's it?" Tim said, perplexed.

Weaver puckered his lips. "You want a kiss?"

"I'm married, remember?"

"I thought you said you weren't?"

"Formalities," Tim shrugged.

Weaver laughed and left through the back, calling over his shoulder, "Lock your doors, you idiot. Any fool could just wander in."

"You got that right," Tim yelled back.

He stayed at the table, tapping his coffee mug restlessly with his fingers. His buddy's visit had knocked the past night's events out of their orbit in his thoughts and replaced them with something new, a vague concern, something that before was a blissful unknown-unknown but now had shifted into the gnawing realm of known-unknown. It stuck to his consciousness like gum on a shoe.

He ran his thumb over his lip and tried to think through the fatigue. There was just enough legal and moral haze around some of the activities in his life that he thought he should worry, despite Weaver's assurances. He was on a list, and likely not a list he cared to be at the top of.

Moving instinctively, he went to the basement and loaded a duffel bag with any equipment that he didn't have receipts for, that had been 'donated' by his buddy over the past few years, then poured the last of the coffee in a travel mug, threw the bag in the truck and drove to work.

* * *

Tim backed through the doors into the office, his duffel bag in one hand, coffee in the other, nodded casually at Art who was eyeing him through the glass, and stopped in front of Raylan's desk.

"Morning," Raylan commented without looking up. It was a statement of fact, not a greeting.

Tim responded in kind. "Yep."

Raylan continued his work, waited for Tim to get to the point.

"Has Art called you in yet?" Tim asked.

"Not yet. I suspect he's waiting for you, hoping to be economical with his sarcasm. Two for one."

Tim nodded. "Got a minute?"

Raylan finally looked up, expecting to see in Tim's expression more remorse about his outburst earlier this morning. Instead, there was something else.

"What's up?"

"Locker room," Tim replied tersely, motioning with his head.

Tim's whole manner had Raylan hooked, curious. He got up without asking why and followed him.

When the door closed behind them, Tim held out the duffel he was carrying. "Can you put this in your locker for a few days?"

Raylan raised his eyebrows and slowly reached over and took the bag. He was surprised that he'd already decided he'd do it, but still, he needed to find a justification beyond the beginnings of trust, so he asked, "Okay, why? What's in it?"

"Just more stuff like we were using last night. A couple of scopes, the goggles, some other stuff. Nothing illegal," he assured him then looked thoughtful and frowned. "Except maybe the suppressor. I need to get a permit for that. I just don't have proper receipts or..." His description faded out and he waved one hand back and forth vaguely, looking at Raylan, a little uncertain, a little pleading.

"Is it stolen? Belong to the military maybe?" Raylan prodded, narrowing his eyes at the former Ranger.

"No, not stolen, maybe borrowed." Tim hesitated. He knew he'd have to cough up more details than he'd offered so far if he expected Raylan to help him out. "I have a friend, CIA, ex-military. He, uh, tends to leave things with me. I have no idea where he gets them or if…" He shrugged helplessly and made a face.

"Donations?" Raylan repeated, catching on.

Tim looked down at his feet. "Those goggles you were using?"

"Uh-huh."

"Israeli."

Raylan thought back to his and Tim's exploits in Harlan earlier that morning. "Well, they certainly came in handy." He had found his justification. Satisfied, he opened his locker and stuffed the bag inside. "Let me know when you want it back." He closed his locker and the conversation.

Art opened the door to the room and stood holding it. He eyed them suspiciously, reminded of high school days sneaking cigarettes in the bathroom. "It seems you boys had a busy night. What're you doing hiding back here? Getting your stories straight?" he accused.

"No, Art, we did that this morning on the drive back from Harlan," Raylan replied openly.

"What an efficient use of time." Art was good at that. Taken literally it was praise, but his tone left no doubt that he intended the opposite. "Well, let's hear it then. In my office, gentlemen."

* * *

Raylan and Tim sat despondently, one scratching his forehead, the other rubbing his eyes. Both men were tired, especially Tim. He'd been in the middle of another round of SOG training in Louisiana when he'd been called across the country to join a special task force hunting an armed and dangerous fugitive in the mountains in New York State. He'd slept where he could, in cars, on planes, at airports, even stretched out on the floor of the mobile command center's trailer. Then he'd come back to an all-nighter with Raylan. He was raw, physically and mentally.

Art stood at his desk watching him, until Raylan noticed the silence and looked over, too. Oblivious to the scrutiny, Tim was starting to shut down before their eyes, motionless, staring open-mouthed at Art's desk.

Art shook his head, made himself comfortable in his chair and began, "I'm amazed, gentlemen. I'm selfishly sleeping and you're out there fighting crime. You're Batman and Robin. Really, you outdid yourselves last night; you both shot someone." He paused. "I can't believe how easily that flows off my tongue." He tried it again. " _You both shot someone_. Hm."

Raylan squirmed a little in his seat and Tim shifted his eyes over to his boss.

"Well, I guess I should be proud. You boys sharing and taking turns," Art said, feigning enthusiasm. "Who went first?"

"I guess I did," Raylan replied, making a face and mumbling.

Tim gestured half-heartedly over at Raylan at the same time.

Art sighed loudly, leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his stomach. He looked sad. "How's Loretta?" he asked.

"Growing up," Raylan responded, a simple statement with a Pandora's Box of implications.

"Oh dear, like that, is it?"

"Probably worse than you're imagining."

Art repeated his sigh. "Well, I'm grateful you took Tim this time for the shoot-out and not Boyd. I won't have quite so much explaining to do. But four armed men and hostages? Raylan, why didn't you call for backup? "

"No cell reception," Raylan explained. "And we had to move quickly. If we'd waited for the locals to show, it might not've turned out so well."

"The Sheriff tells me he got an anonymous call, someone heard gun fire. Anyone you know?"

"Wouldn't be anonymous if I knew," Raylan shrugged.

Art aimed a jaded look at him and hit his mark. Raylan grimaced. "It was Limehouse."

"Long way from Noble's Holler. Out walking his dog, was he?"

Raylan finally took off his hat and surrendered.

"I really don't want to know, do I?" Art concluded, not relishing the victory.

Raylan shook his head.

"And what's wrong with Tim?" Art asked, nodding at him, speaking around him like he was a pothole in the road. "He's inanimate."

"I think he's sleepwalking," suggested Raylan. "It'd probably be dangerous to wake him."

"I don't know why SOG doesn't just take him on full time. They're always calling him out to something," Art complained. "When's he supposed to get any regular Marshal work done? I mean, look at him."

Tim stirred himself enough to respond. "Fuck, Chief, don't suggest it to them, please. I'd shoot myself before I'd work full time for them."

Art frowned at Raylan. "Now he's talking in his sleep, too."

Raylan grinned.

"Tim," Art yelled, "Go home! Go to bed! Alone!"

Tim looked up and blinked.

"Now, Bozo! And don't come back till tomorrow or maybe Friday. You're about as useful to me as a paperweight."

Tim pulled himself out of the chair and left.

Raylan stood to leave, too.

"Where are you going?" Art demanded. "We're not finished." He jabbed a finger at him. "Sit. Stay."

Art watched to make sure that Tim was following orders. When he was satisfied he turned his attention back to Raylan and said, "Loretta McCready."

"Loretta McCready?" Raylan repeated with a question mark, looking innocently back at Art.

"Loretta McCready, Raylan. Too many coincidences for my liking. Limehouse and Loretta; you, Limehouse and Loretta. What's going on?"

"May I remind you that you just said you didn't want to know."

"I've changed my mind."

"It's the Bennett money."

Art put the pieces together. "Loretta's got the Bennett money? Christ, Raylan, why the hell'd you tell me?" He threw his hands in the air. "I didn't want to know that!"

* * *

 


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

"Well, I didn't wake up till three yesterday afternoon," Tim explained and stuffed another handful of trail mix in his mouth.

"You slept for almost thirty hours?" Rachel snorted.

He nodded. "It was awesome. I love my bed."

"Nice of you to show up for work _one_ day this week," Rachel commented dryly. She pulled in to the curb and looked up at an apartment block. "Here we are."

"Now what?"

"Were you not listening?" she huffed.

He gestured at her with an apple he'd just pulled out of his pocket and taken a bite of, trying to say something around the chewing. She slapped it away and glared at him.

"Someone from the Cincinnati Bureau is going to meet us here and hand over our new guest." She looked at her watch. "We're early."

"That's because you drive like a maniac," he mumbled, still chomping.

"I do not."

"Do, too. Did you see the look on that guy's face in the Corvette when you pulled out and passed him?" Tim shook his head. "He's going to need clean underwear and some detailing work on the inside of that car. And maybe one of those pine tree air fresheners."

"Tcha," she dismissed his comments. "And stop talking with your mouth full. You're spitting apple everywhere."

Tim grinned, chewing happily and reached for the file between them. "Why are they moving this guy anyway? Doesn't he like Cincinnati?"

"You really weren't paying attention, were you?" she accused.

He looked at her sheepishly. "Maybe I slept a little longer than thirty hours," he conceded. "I do remember the part when Art said the guy was in WITSEC."

Rachel stared at him stonily for a minute then patiently explained, "He keeps compromising his location. He had a wife and a girlfriend in his former life. We offered to include his wife; he refused. He wanted to include his girlfriend; we refused. So he keeps calling her and inviting her over."

"Wow. This is his fourth relocation," Tim said reading further, "in less than six months. That's got to be a record. This idiot's going to end up dead. Who did he squeal on?" He scanned through the sheet. "Oh. Mob. Not good."

He dropped the file back on the seat and looked out the window, checking the street. "Coffee shop," he noted, pointing across the road. "Want something?"

Tim was already halfway out of the car so Rachel just shrugged, "Sure. The usual."

When he arrived back with coffee and snacks, Rachel was on the sidewalk talking to the Cincinnati Marshal.

"Frank Sanderson," he introduced himself, shaking Tim's hand. "I'm so sorry this guy's now your problem." He didn't look sorry, grinning widely.

Tim had picked up three coffees just in case and Deputy Sanderson happily accepted the one on offer.

"Gino De Luca. You got to love him. The guy's a walking cliché. Even his name's a cliché. Bada boom, bada bing," he said disparagingly, shaking his head. "Come on up and I'll let you judge for yourself."

Gino's apartment was on the twentieth floor of an older building with a matching old elevator, a slow ride, time for conversation and time to finish a coffee. The three Marshals chatted amicably about the job in Lexington versus the job in Cincinnati, only an hour and a half drive apart but a completely different set of usual suspects and usual crimes.

They walked the hallway to the apartment, knocked on the door and waited. Knocked again.

"Do you smell that?" Rachel commented, wrinkling up her nose.

"You sound like my wife," Sanderson said. "She's always saying, _do you smell that?_ And I don't. And then she digs around and pulls something rotten out of the fridge."

He tried the door handle but it was locked. He pulled out a key and opened it, only to be stymied by the chain.

"Gino?" he called loudly. No answer, but he and Tim could now smell what was bothering Rachel.

They drew their weapons and kicked open the door, dividing up the apartment and searching quickly. Tim found the body in a bedroom set up as a TV room. He gagged, covered his nose and mouth and turned around, gesturing at Rachel.

"I guess he called his girlfriend again," she said.

"Or maybe his wife."

Sanderson phoned it in and the apartment was soon overrun with Cincinnati police. The coroner said that the body had been there a few days, death by gunshot wound, center of mass.

"We've got us a locked room murder," the CPD homicide detective said in a cheesy radio drama voice.

He got a few chuckles, though it was clear to everyone there that Gino was shot through the window. Tim walked over and looked out.

Rachel appeared beside him. "We can cross you off the list of suspects."

"Why's that?" he asked.

"You'd have shot him in the head," she remarked.

"Actually," he corrected her, "probably not. Center of mass shot like that is much more reliable, especially through glass. I only go for head shots when they're pointing a gun at someone, _and_ it's not too far."

"Sorry, can't help eavesdropping. You got some training as a sniper?" The homicide detective had come up behind them and interrupted the conversation.

"He does. You might want to get his opinion," Rachel answered and then shot Tim a 'be cooperative' look.

"Well, you heard the little Marshal," the detective prompted, smiling condescendingly at Rachel. "Let's hear your take on this, kid."

Tim wondered how old you had to be before people stopped calling you 'kid'. It was almost enough to make him hope for early gray hair and wrinkles. Rachel had it worse. She'd been in the business over ten years and was constantly treated like a rookie, not looking at all her age. Women are tricky, he thought to himself, appearing older when they're younger, younger when they're older. Rachel kicked his foot. He pulled out of his mental ramblings and focused on the shooting.

"Twentieth floor means safety glass. More chance of messing with the trajectory. Ideally, you'd do it in a team. Someone shoots the window and a second sniper fires immediately afterward at the target. Not likely here, though. Good enough rifle and proper rounds and you could make the single shot confidently if you took it at a 90° angle." Tim turned and pointed outside. "That would make that building there the place to set up."

"Not the closer one?"

"Nope. Bad angle. Too risky. And I'd still look for a second bullet. You never know. Of course," he added grinning, "good shooter, proper system and you could do just about anything, but why would he make it hard for himself."

The detective nodded, decided the kid knew what he was talking about and hurriedly scribbled some notes.

When the team from the coroner's office was finished and they had the body in a bag on the gurney, Rachel and Tim decided to accompany them downstairs, feeling they weren't needed anymore. Sanderson joined them, leaving the crime scene in the hands of the CPD. The coroner was complaining that only the freight elevator was long enough to fit the body. They couldn't get hold of the building superintendent to release it for them, so they tightened the straps around Gino, collapsed the gurney, carefully propped it upright and all crowded into the regular elevator.

"Hopefully it doesn't stop for anyone on the way down," Rachel commented.

Tim glared at her for jinxing them when the elevator shuddered to a halt two floors below. "You just had to say it, didn't you?"

A woman was waiting to get on. She had a dog on a leash that started barking sharply as the door slowly opened. Tim, last on and closest, stepped forward and put out a hand to stop her.

"Ma'am," he suggested politely, "you may want to wait for the next elevator."

She looked past him to the coroners, the other two Marshals, the upright stretcher and the body bag.

"There's room," she said annoyed, "and Snowball has to do his business. Don't you, Snowball?"

Tim looked down at her fluffy, yippy, white dog and day-dreamed about drop-kicking it down the hall. He then looked back at Rachel, shrugged and stepped back to let the woman and Snowball on board. The doors closed.

The elevator was old and had jerked to a stop and then jerked again to continue the ride. The sharp movement was just enough to shift the body, shaking it loose from its restraints. Well passed the stage of rigor mortis, the knees buckled and it started to slide downwards on the stretcher. Gino had decided to take a seat on the floor. The Marshals could only watch in horror.

Snowball started barking again. Gino's knees folded slowly outward and bumped the woman on the back of the leg. She turned in a huff, squeaked when the body moved again and began pressing random floor buttons in a mad bid to escape.

Tim was the first to lose it, both hands over his face, his body shaking silently. Deputy Sanderson made the mistake of looking over at the Kentucky Marshal; he went next, snorting out loud and giggling. It was a domino effect. By the time the elevator stopped at the next floor and the woman was frantically dragging her dog off, barking and growling, all three Marshals and the coroner's team were laughing uncontrollably.

The hysterics continued all the way to the lobby. Every extra stop yanked the body further down and started a fresh bout of giggles. They spilled out on the main floor clutching their sides. After taking a moment to catch their breath, they awkwardly hauled the gurney out and laid the body flat back on it.

Rachel wiped at her eyes, careful of her makeup. "Oh my God, my stomach hurts," she moaned.

Tim started laughing again and she reached over and smacked him. "Stop it," she spluttered weakly.

* * *

Both Raylan and Art stood up from their desks when Rachel and Tim walked back in later that afternoon. Raylan cut them off and took a firm grip of Tim's arm, steering him toward the locker room.

"What the fuck, Raylan?" Tim jerked his arm free.

Raylan would not be deterred. He planted a hand firmly in the middle of Tim's back and started pushing him across to the door.

"Hold it, Raylan," Art called after them. "You and Tim can hold your secret boys' club meeting later. I want a word with these two."

He crossed his arms and looked serious. "I just got a call from the Bureau Chief in Cincinnati. Did that really happen on the elevator?"

Tim tried not to smile and dared not look at Rachel, afraid he'd set her off again. Art gave himself away when his mouth twitched.

"Don't you start," Rachel cried out, desperate. "Either of you."

Art confined his mirth to a chuckle. "I got to tell you, I've been dreading having that guy transferred into my district. He's been nothing but a headache for the Bureau in Cincinnati. And since the body's in Ohio I don't have to close out the file, either. A happy ending all 'round."

"Not for Gino De Luca," Tim stated.

"Well," Art philosophized, "what do you expect, trying to keep a wife and a girlfriend. He obviously had a death wish."

"Are we done?" Raylan asked impatiently.

"Yeah, I suppose we are. Though Tim might be interested in what happened to Dickie Bennett."

"Dickie Bennett?" Tim asked looking from Art to Raylan. "What about him?"

"Somebody tried to kill him yesterday afternoon," Art answered.

Raylan gave Art an angry look then deliberately stepped over so he was facing Tim.

"Sorry, pumpkin," Art said sarcastically, noticing Raylan's reaction. "Did I burst your balloon?"

Raylan ignored Art and looked intently at Tim. "Someone shot him in the exercise yard."

Tim drew back and opened his eyes wide. "The exercise yard?" he repeated, stunned.

Raylan continued to watch Tim's reaction, raised his eyebrows pointedly. Tim shook his head, a small movement, and shrugged.

"He was _shot_?" Rachel exclaimed. "How did they get a gun into the prison?"

"They didn't," Art clarified for her. "The shot was taken from outside. They figure it was a sniper. 'Course the prison guards just thought there'd been a fight and Dickie got it with a shiv. It didn't get called in until the doctor pulled out a bullet. Needless to say, the shooter was long gone by then."

Tim recognized the story. It was word for word the scenario he'd described for Raylan during the drive to Harlan. And Raylan remembered, too, his eyes continuing to search Tim's face.

"You two smell like death," Art complained and wrinkled his nose.

* * *

 


	6. Chapter 6

* * *

"Tim's like Spock. You don't often see any emotion," she said, holding her hand up in a traditional Vulcan greeting. "Only he doesn't control his emotions exactly, he just jams them tight into a mental box and ties it shut with strings of sarcasm."

Rachel grinned at the imagery. "Do you ever get inside that box?"

"Oh, sometimes," Miljana admitted, "but it's work. He guards it well, with all the training and discipline of a man who's former military. The only way to get in is a covert assault, with smart bombs and special humor-coated sarcasm-piercing rounds." She continued illustrating her comments with her hands, moving from Vulcan V's to explosions and machine-gunning.

"Girl, you've been hanging around Tim too long. You're starting to talk like him."

"When in Rome…" she shrugged.

The girls were sitting in the back yard at Tim's house, sharing some of Miljana's homemade sangria while Tim ran around the local schoolyard playing basketball with Nick. The only thing Tim hated more than playing basketball was leaving Rachel and his girlfriend alone together, drinking.

"What are you two talking about?" he asked, walking into the yard later with Nick and eyeing them suspiciously.

"Nothing," they giggled in unison.

"Uh-huh," he responded and gave Nick a disgruntled look. "Now I know how Caesar felt on the fourteenth of March." Tim pointed to Rachel's glass. "You want a refill?"

"I've been waiting," she replied impatiently.

"Since when wouldn't you help yourself," he shot back, tossing the ball to Nick and heading inside.

Nick caught the ball with practiced ease and stood dribbling it on the old cement patio.

"Is he improving at all?" Miljana asked him.

Nick just shrugged, typical teenager. She grinned at him and followed Tim in the house to get Nick a cola and some snacks.

Tim had his head stuck in the fridge, digging in the back for the coldest beer. There was a knock at the door and Miljana shoved him farther in to get past and answer it. She laughed when she heard bottles falling over, Tim cursing trying to catch his balance. He stood up the toppled beer, found a cold one and extricated himself. He half listened to see who was calling on a Sunday afternoon, caught something in Miljana's tone, distress, anger, and followed her into the hall.

A group of men were pushing their way in, some still on the porch, one holding Miljana's arm and steering her forcefully backward into the house. Tim moved quickly, stepping between the man and his girl, grabbed him by the wrist and twisted, forcing him to let go.

"Hands off," Tim snarled, shoving him back into the man behind him. He pointed at the door. "Get out."

"Tim Gutterson?"

"That's right," he answered, blocking them from coming past the front hall.

"We have a warrant to search your house."

"A warrant? For what?" Tim questioned.

No one replied. One man pinned a document onto Tim's chest with his hand and moved to get by.

"Stop right there and show me some ID," Tim demanded grabbing the warrant.

"Special Agent Thomson, Federal Bureau of Investigation; this is Major Rand, Army Criminal Investigations Unit."

Tim turned to the man that spoke up and took the ID he was offering, checked it carefully and the Major's. Satisfied he handed them back.

"What's this all about?" he asked.

Again, no one answered his question.

"We would appreciate if you'd stay out of our way while we conduct our search," Agent Thomson said.

"Knock yourselves out." Tim waved them on, angry. He waited until they'd started up and down the stairs and added, "Best watch out for the snakes in the basement."

He opened the warrant and skimmed it. It looked legitimate; he'd seen a few. He turned calmly to Miljana and said, "Go on out back with Nick, would you? And send in Rachel."

"I'm sorry," Agent Thomson interrupted, "she'll have to wait here."

Tim cocked his head to the side and gave the agent an incredulous look. "Oh, for fuck's sake, we've got friends over. How about some professional courtesy? Send one of your minions out with her if it'd make you feel better. You've emptied the entire Bureau into my house by the looks of it, I'm sure you can spare one man."

Thomson frowned then nodded at Miljana. "You can go."

Upset, she looked at Tim, not wanting to leave him alone. He reached over and gave her a gentle but persuasive push.

"Go on," he insisted. "It's just a search warrant."

Rachel took her spot a minute later, her Marshal's face on and her back already up. Grimly, Tim smiled at her, thankful for her unconditional support.

"I'm Deputy Brooks of the US Marshals Service," she stated coldly. "What's going on?"

Thomson looked down his nose at her. Tim handed her the warrant. She read it through carefully, by the end, her eyebrows had topped out.

"I'd love to see the evidence you provided the judge to show probably cause," she huffed. "I'll bet I could blow holes through it with a straw. Do you have an arrest warrant as well?"

"That depends on the outcome of the search," Agent Thomson replied. He screwed his face up, regretting that she'd managed to wheedle that much from him with only her imperious tone and an arched eyebrow.

Tim leaned against the hall wall and let her take point. She had a way, and it was better for him that she did the talking. The attitude could come from her mouth and he could keep up the appearance of submission and cooperation.

A federal agent came up from the basement carrying a small lock box and set it on top of another one from upstairs. He reported that he'd found a large firearms safe, locked.

"I didn't see any snakes," he added.

Tim smirked.

"Would you like the safe unlocked?" Rachel asked.

"Yes," Thomas snapped.

"Ask nicely," she suggested.

Agent Thomson reacted to her tone. "I don't think you need to be here. I'm going to have to ask you step back outside."

"Why? Am I interfering?" Her disdain for the proceedings was evident in her expression. "You can ask me all you want, but I'm not leaving. And don't you dare touch me," she warned with a threatening finger when he took a step forward.

He hesitated and glared at her.

"Would you like him to open the safe for you?" she repeated, staring him down.

He turned to Tim and nodded. Tim moved forward but Rachel put out a hand to stop him and raised an eyebrow at Agent Thomson.

His face twitched in annoyance. "Would you _please_ open the safe for us?" he asked Tim.

Tim followed an agent downstairs, unlocked his safe and pulled out an ammunition box that they'd missed, handing it over with a cheeky grin. When he returned to the hall he unlocked the smaller boxes, too, and offered to get the one in the kitchen they'd overlooked.

"Do you have anything in your truck?" Thomson demanded.

"Now just a minute," Rachel intervened. "This warrant does not include his vehicle."

"It's okay," Tim shrugged and led an agent out with him to his truck. When he came back inside, Rachel had a finger in Thomson's face and was lecturing him.

"And I want it noted in your report that he's cooperating fully with your search. You do realize," she added angrily, "that he's a Deputy US Marshal _and_ a decorated war veteran?"

Agent Thomson was standing stiffly, looking anywhere but at Rachel. Tim imagined his feelings at the words Rachel hadn't spoken aloud but implied: _What would your mother think? For shame!_

They wanted to take Tim in for questioning, but Rachel refused for him, stating they could find him at work tomorrow in the Marshals Office if they needed him.

"It's Sunday and you can all go to hell," she said, smiled sweetly and slammed the door when the last agent snuck past her.

She stood with her hands on her hips, tapping her foot, and watched them drive away.

"Just what was that all about? Suspicion of murder…" she huffed indignantly. "Did they take _all_ your guns?"

He shrugged.

"Including your service issue?"

He nodded.

"And how are you supposed to work tomorrow?"

He was wondering that, too. "Suspended?" he suggested.

"I doubt it. I think only Art or the District Chief can do that, though knowing the FBI they could probably figure out a way. I'm going to call Art. It's obvious he doesn't know or he'd be here by now."

She stomped angrily into the kitchen, even in jeans and sandals looking professional; Tim trailed behind her like a stray dog.

"Where're Nick and Milja?" he asked.

"I sent them for ice cream."

She looked over at him while she dialed. "They took your computer, too." She paused, waiting for a reaction and got none. "I get the distinct impression that you're not completely surprised by all this."

He held her gaze but didn't answer. Art picked up and she looked away, shaking her head.

* * *

Art arrived and walked into the kitchen, Rachel following, streaming non-stop indignation and waving the warrant furiously as if it had done her personal offense. Art reached into the fridge and chose a beer and sat at the table drinking it, watching Tim and listening to Rachel blast her version of the afternoon's drama.

When she finished, Art lifted his bottle at Tim, "At least they left the beer."

Tim grinned.

Rachel was wound up and it took some convincing to get her to take Nick home. She was feeling protective. After she'd left Art helped himself to a second beer.

"So, you're telling me you _haven't_ been shooting people on your days off?"

Tim rolled his eyes.

"Just checking," said Art. "I assume you have licenses for all the weapons in your private arsenal?"

"Yessir."

"Well, pull them all together. They'll be back. I can't believe they didn't ask for them while they were here," he mused.

"I think Rachel had them on edge."

Art chuckled in appreciation and turned to Miljana. "Should I be worried?" He nodded at Tim.

She pursed her lips and tapped her finger against them, appearing to give the question some serious thought. "Let me see. Um, the basement floor is concrete and I do all the gardening. I think I would have noticed any fresh graves."

"Well, okay then, that's settled," Art responded cheerfully. "They've obviously got the wrong guy."

Art knew that wouldn't do for comfort. Tim still looked worried, though he was trying his best to hide it.

"I'll make some phone calls tomorrow morning, see what I can find out," Art offered. He took a sip of his beer and considered the realities of an unarmed Marshal. "They took everything?"

"Including my computer and my phone," Tim confirmed.

"Probably want to see if you have a profile on that website, MatchGrade.com, where contract killers go to hook up with like-minded clients," Art joked.

"Oops, should I have deleted that?" Tim asked in mock-horror, bringing his hand up to cover his mouth.

Art didn't laugh. "Army CID, huh? Just what do you suppose that's all about?"

Tim shrugged and thought about Weaver's warning.

"Well, let me finish my beer." Art waved his bottle in case they hadn't noticed it. "Then I'll take you into the office and we'll sign you out a weapon. You look naked without one. It's making me uncomfortable."

* * *

 


	7. Chapter 7

* * *

Monday morning Art watched the suits gather in the hall outside the doors. He stood up and walked out of his office to meet them. Tim was watching them, too, nervously. Rachel was watching Tim.

"Gentlemen," Art greeted them as they filed in. "Let me guess, FBI? CID?"

"You're the Chief Deputy?" Agent Thomson asked.

"Art Mullen," he replied and offered a hand to shake.

Thomson gave Art's hand only cursory attention and offered no introductions. "We have some questions for one of your Deputies."

"Tim Gutterson. I know. I was over at his house on Sunday after your visit," Art responded. "I had to get him a new sidearm. Just how do you expect him to keep up moonlighting as a contract killer without a weapon? Or perform his duties as a Marshal, for that matter?"

Agent Thomson looked grim. "Chief Mullen, I'm amazed you find this amusing."

"I'm amazed you don't. This whole thing's a farce."

Thomson finally turned his attention to the Chief Deputy. "I don't like your attitude."

"And I don't like yours," Art smiled. "So we're off to a good start. We've found common ground. It's an important first step in conflict resolution." He turned his back on him. "Tim," he called, waving him onstage like Bob Barker, "come on down."

Tim sighed, gathered his confidence as best he could and walked over.

Art addressed Thomson again. "You're welcome to use the conference room because unless you're pulling out the handcuffs Tim is not leaving this office with you." He patted Tim on the shoulder. "I'll be right behind you. I just want a quick word with Rachel."

"We'll be talking to Deputy Gutterson _alone_ ," Thomson stated.

"Fine," Art said coldly; then, "Tim, let them talk but feel free to walk out whenever you want. Or else just give me the signal and I'll call you a lawyer."

"What's the signal?" Tim asked, confused.

Art made a motion; Tim snorted, despite his anxiety.

* * *

The questions kept coming, about his routine, his acquaintances, his whereabouts on certain dates, and then the photos were lined up, the police reports layed out, the victims' names listed. Tim had no answers to satisfy them or himself and the frustration on both sides mounted. Tim had been all over the country in the past six months, in and out of various airports, a myriad of cities, all at SOG's bidding. Providing vacuum-sealed alibis was impossible.

The FBI had been alerted to a series of assassinations in the central US, all rifle shots, all with aspects that pointed to military sniper training. They had called in CID to help them put together a list of suspects and the Army had cooperated after peevishly bringing to the Feds attention the number of privately run sniper schools popping up all over the country. The Feds had then narrowed the list down by geography. Since none of the jobs was high-profile nor likely high-paying, they assumed the shooter was living within a certain radius, and that radius included a certain Kentucky Marshal.

It was around lunchtime, Tim's stomach was making noises and he was only half paying attention. Catching glimpses of the other Marshals in the office going about their day, he longed to be grinding through a report or mindlessly checking facts in a case, having lunch with Dewey Crowe even, anything but this. Then Major Rand slapped the list down in front of him and asked if he recognized any one of the ten names on it, apart from his own, Sgt. T. Gutterson. Tim ran through it quickly; he knew just about all of them. He sat back in his chair and looked over at the Chief's office. Art and Raylan were having a serious discussion. Raylan turned and looked at Tim just as the Major started tapping emphatically at the list.

"Are any of these men capable of the work we're describing?" Rand demanded.

Tim focused on him wearily and licked his lips. "Define capable."

"Don't play games."

"I'm not. But I'm not answering that question until I'm certain that you don't see capable as the same as culpable. Besides, they're all military. You know damn well what they're _capable_ of."

"Your opinion, Sergeant."

"I'm sure somewhere in that file with my name on it are my discharge papers," Tim responded with a classic head tilt and as thick a drawl as he could muster. "You must be aware that I am no longer in the Army. It's Deputy now."

Rand smiled; there was no cheer in it. "Your opinion, _Deputy_."

"Well, if you want my professional opinion as a law enforcement officer, I'd need time to read over the police reports."

He motioned for them. Rand hesitated then handed them over. Tim began reading carefully, sifting through the information, looking for clues, applying his experience as a Marshal and a sniper. Since he first learned the nature of the investigation, this was what he wanted, a good look at these reports, and he'd worked the interview to that end. He wasn't as good at it as Art or Raylan or Rachel, all three masters of the triad of intimidation, interrogation and trickery, but he was learning. Watching and learning.

He took his time, and when he had gleaned what he could on a first reading he handed them back, reasonably confident of two things, that he could thin out the list of suspects by six and fatten up the list of victims by two, Gino De Luca and Dickie Bennett.

"Sorry," he shrugged, "can't help you."

"Sergeant," Rand responded quietly, "you're only hurting yourself. If you know anything that would put any one of these men at the top of our list then your name would naturally move down to the bottom."

"Wow, really? This is just like the Spanish Inquisition, the French Revolution, Stalin's Great Purge, the Chinese Cultural Revolution, the McCarthy Era – sell out your buddy to save yourself. Just this is on a smaller scale." Tim brought his thumb and forefinger together to within a quarter of an inch to illustrate just how much smaller. "Go fuck yourselves. I'm not doing it. Are we done?"

"No, Sergeant."

" _Deputy_ ," Tim sighed. "Hey, when do I get my guns back?"

* * *

"Means, motive and opportunity." Raylan checked each off on a finger. "Art, he's got all three."

"Opportunity?" Art questioned. "He was home asleep Thursday afternoon."

"Art, he was home _alone_."

"Yeah, sleeping," Art said, grinning. "I'm convinced of it. Did you not see how perky he was Friday morning?"

"Art, he has no alibi."

The smile dropped from Art's face and he addressed Raylan's concerns seriously for the first time since he walked into his office and aired them. "Be that as it may, Raylan, it's all circumstantial. You've obviously got a bee in your bonnet and I think it's a 'b' for _bullshit_. There's a reason we can't convict someone of a crime in this country based on circumstantial evidence. Find me something, anything concrete and I'll take your suspicions seriously, but until then I'm not prepared to go there. That's an ugly road."

Art had his hands firmly planted on his hips and was trying to keep his tone even, his emotions where they belonged, at the courthouse door until the end of the day.

"You know what your problem is, Raylan? You don't trust men. If it was Rachel, you wouldn't be in my office."

"I trust you," Raylan said, defending himself.

"No, you don't. If you did, I wouldn't always be called out to the shootings after the fact. You don't trust anyone with a Y chromosome and it doesn't take a degree in Psychology to see it." Art let Raylan ponder his theory for a moment then added, "I don't believe for a minute that Tim'd risk everything he's worked so hard to build in the last four years to bump off Dickie Bennett. It just doesn't ring right. Think about what you're saying, Raylan. It would mean he's pulling one over on me, Rachel, and his girlfriend who happens to be his live-in shrink."

"It wouldn't be the first time in history a man has been able to fool the people closest to him."

"You're right, but that poor kid has never been able to lie to me. It's kind of endearing," said Art, trying to lighten the tension, get Raylan off course. "And consider this, by your reasoning _you_ should be serving time for Tommy Bucks's murder. Means, motive, opportunity." Art mimicked Raylan and counted each point off on a finger. "And we all _know_ where you were when he got shot."

Raylan paced a minute in front of Art's desk. Moving to sit, he almost crushed his hat and picked it up off the chair, settling himself down in its place. "Okay," he said.

"Okay, what?" Art asked suspiciously.

"Okay, you're right," Raylan conceded.

"Of course I'm right. I'm the Chief. That's why they pay me the big bucks." Art sat down as well, relieved to see Raylan steered in another direction.

"I just couldn't believe it when I heard about Dickie. Art, it was _exactly_ the way Tim described he'd do it."

"Not _exactly_ ," Art corrected him. "Tim wouldn't have missed. Dickie'd be dead if Tim were shooting."

"Huh," Raylan huffed, halfway to a chuckle. "I suppose. Still, it's a hell of a coincidence, and you've said often enough that you don't believe in coincidences."

"I don't. I think this tells us something about the shooter."

"What's that?" Raylan looked up, interested.

"He's probably had similar training," explained Art. "Their minds obviously worked the problem the same way."

"Military," Raylan nodded, sitting back in his chair looking more relaxed. "I've been arguing with myself all weekend about this."

"Who's winning?"

"Very funny," Raylan responded then shook his head and let out a breath. "You should have been there, Art, listening to him describe it. And I have to admit, it's not helping ease my mind, what with the search warrant and now this." Raylan waved over to the conference room.

Art said nothing. He let the silence work for him, deadening Raylan's words, letting them slip unacknowledged into doubt. He then let his own thoughts slip into neutral and considered the possibility, but it just wouldn't settle, couldn't get hold any place logical.

Raylan studied his hat for a minute. "What would you do, Art, if I did find something?"

"Raylan," Art snapped, exasperated, "leave it alone. Tim's life has plenty of scrutiny right now without you adding your two cents worth."

"Did you react like this when he talked to you about Gary?"

"Are you trying to tell me Tim shot Gary, too? I'm pretty sure we got Quarles for that."

Raylan looked at Art in disbelief. "He never came to you about his suspicions?"

"What suspicions, Raylan? What are you talking about?" Art asked, though at this point he had a good idea.

Turning in his chair, Raylan looked into the conference room and watched the proceedings. Tim caught his eye briefly then focused his attention on the CID officer who was jabbing a finger sharply on the table. Raylan realized he was becoming familiar with the signals the younger Marshal was unwittingly giving out. What he once considered the unflappable Gutterson composure was in fact just a subtle read. Distrust, definitely; anger, low but present; mostly he looked upset. Sorrow, not guilt or disdain was the dominant emotion.

"Look like guilt to you?" Art asked, watching Raylan watching Tim.

Raylan narrowed his eyes. "It's still a hell of a coincidence, Art. And he's hiding something."

"Maybe," Art conceded, looking over at Tim and making his own assessment. "Okay, I'd say he is, too. But that doesn't make him Carlos the Jackal."

* * *

 


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

Their parting words were: "We'll be back to talk to you again," and, "Don't discuss this with anyone."

Tim made sure they'd all left, taking them to the elevator and pressing the button, then walked straight into Art's office, closed the door and told him everything. When he was done, Art leaned back in his chair, running both hands over his head.

"Bourbon?"

"Sure."

After the first sip, Art asked, "So, what do you want to do about all this?"

Tim considered for a moment. "Could you get me the police report, with ballistics, on the De Luca murder?"

"Yeah, I could do that," Art nodded. "Why?"

"I think it's the same guy, but they haven't made the connection yet." Tim shrugged. "I doubt it'll help any. I'm more just curious. I'd like to see Dickie Bennett's too."

"Anything else?"

"Can I take a bit of time? Check into a few things?" Tim requested.

"Okay. Just don't do anything stupid," Art ordered. "And let me know everything you're doing, everyone you're going to talk to. Don't give them anything for free."

"Don't worry, I'll be extra careful. I already feel like a turkey at Thanksgiving."

"Speaking of turkey, you want some lunch?"

"You haven't eaten yet?"

"Yeah, I have, but you haven't and I don't like the way you're eyeing my arm." Art pulled a wrapped sandwich off the shelf behind him and tossed it over. "You can thank Rachel."

Art and Tim discussed the situation while Tim ate. A little food and a friendly ear went a long way to reducing the insurmountable problem built up in Tim's mind to something navigable, like a mine field maybe. He was feeling marginally better about the day when he left Art's office.

Afterward, Tim went looking for Raylan and was directed to the locker room. He found him looking through the duffel bag. Raylan glanced up and Tim raised his hands to forestall any explanations.

"Hey, it's okay. I get it. I tracked Gary all the way to Tulsa. That was a hell of a lot of work just to convince myself you hadn't strangled the idiot. I don't blame you one bit for checking that bag." Tim sat on the bench beside him and propped his elbows on his knees looking discouraged. "Maybe I should have stayed in the Army. It keeps dogging me anyway. And the amount of time I spend with SOG, it's like I never left."

Raylan reached into the bag and pulled out a piece of equipment, held it up for Tim to identify.

"That's a range finder," Tim explained.

"I thought maybe it was an alien device you'd stolen from AREA 51. Oddest pair of binoculars I've ever seen," Raylan commented then put it back.

"You hear anything about Dickie's shooting?" Tim questioned.

"I was going to ask you the same thing. What'd your friends from the FBI have to say about it?"

Tim shook his head. "It wasn't part of their investigation."

"Huh. I'm surprised."

"Yeah, me too."

"They went through your locker while you were being questioned." Raylan zipped up the bag and put it back. "Tim, how did you know they were coming to search your house?"

Tim took a deep breath and sat up straight. "I got a cryptic warning from an idiotic friend who keeps dumping his shit in my basement," he explained. "Not that I mind, really. It's some cool shit." He grinned but his face wasn't into it.

"How did _he_ know?"

"Beats me."

"How did it go in there?" Raylan gestured back to the wall adjoining the conference room.

Tim shrugged. "They're going to have a hell of time going through hours of security feeds from all the airports I've been in the last few months, just to see me sleeping in the corner at the departure gates. What I don't get is why they let me see the police reports."

"That is strange. Looking for a reaction maybe," Raylan suggested.

"I'm more worried they're hoping I'll help them."

Raylan didn't understand and prodded, "Why should that worry you?"

"I'm pretty sure I know him." Tim rubbed his hands on his pants, stood up and left Raylan alone.

* * *

"Marshal," Limehouse smiled looking up. "What brings you down to Noble's Holler this fine summer afternoon?"

"Just in the neighborhood," Raylan prevaricated.

"Mm-hmm."

"Loretta's doing okay?"

"Last I heard," Limehouse replied, turning to wash his hands at the sink. "Though I suspect she'll find more trouble soon enough."

"I'm sorry to say Tim's found some," said Raylan. "Army CID and the Feds have taken an unwelcome interest in him, looking into some contract killings. They suspect military training. Sniper specifically."

Limehouse paused, his back to Raylan, then wiped his hands slowly on a rag and picked up a cleaver. "And they suspect Deputy Gutterson?" he inquired.

"Apparently so," Raylan replied casually. "They were in the office all morning with him. He certainly has the training. As I understand it, he was an outstanding marksman, even in the company of other snipers. Makes you wonder why he took up being a Marshal. A good shooter can make fair coin in private security."

Limehouse had turned around and was watching Raylan as he spoke. "Some folk just don't care so much for money," Ellstin said.

Raylan dropped his chin and looked up under the brim of his hat at Limehouse, the disbelief evident. "Everyone cares about money."

"Let me rephrase that then, qualify my statement for you. Some folk only care for _enough_ money."

Raylan and Limehouse held a look, measuring each others' words. Raylan broke off first, shifting his weight to one hip and adjusting his hat.

"It's quite a coincidence, don't you think, that Dickie Bennett takes a sniper bullet so soon after Loretta's little kidnapping adventure," he said.

"I'm disappointed he missed," Limehouse grumbled under his breath.

"Who missed?" Raylan asked, moving closer and leaning in for clarification.

"The shooter."

"Someone you know? Your tone seems to suggest a familiarity with the man."

Limehouse set down his cleaver and placed both hands on his chopping block, narrowing a hard look at Raylan.

"Are you implying something, Marshal?"

Raylan raised his eyebrows and returned the stare. It was Limehouse that broke off this time.

"I used to love those connect-the-dot puzzles when I was young," Limehouse reminisced. "You know the ones I mean? You draw a picture with your pencil, going from dot number one to number two, and so on…" He was illustrating his story by connecting blood drippings on his block, smearing lines among the blood splatter with his finger.

"Our conversation here today is bringing to mind one of those puzzles," he continued, joining the drops, a line for each point. "One, you come in here and tell me that Deputy Gutterson is under investigation for some contract killings. Two, you summarize for me his particular skills. Three, you slide the conversation to Dickie Bennett's condition, his unfortunate collision with a sniper's bullet. And four, you imply a personal connection between me and the shooter. And I don't know many snipers, Marshal. In fact, I only know one."

He stopped his macabre puzzle and pointed his bloody finger angrily at Raylan. "Maybe I don't have enough dots yet to make out the picture, or maybe I just don't like what I'm seeing, either way I think it's best you explain it plainly for me, _Mr. Givens_. I don't want to get it wrong and take offense where none was meant and judge you badly for it."

Being addressed as 'Mr. Givens' rankled, especially when it was consciously done, for that was Arlo's name. Raylan took a couple of angry breaths and squared off on the other side of the butcher's block. "Let me put it to you as simply as I can then. Did Deputy Gutterson shoot Dickie Bennett? And did you hire him to do it?"

"And if he did?" Limehouse asked, ignoring the second question.

"If he did," Raylan stated, "then I will arrest him myself if I can prove it."

Limehouse stood up straight and shook his head slowly. "Say it was him that did it. Don't you think maybe he's doing us all a favor?"

"My personal feelings don't come into it."

"Really, Marshal? And where were your personal feelings when you cornered Tommy Bucks in Miami and put three holes in him?"

Raylan could feel his heart racing, struggling to keep up with his frustration and confusion. He narrowed his eyes at Limehouse and asked again, "Did you hire him?"

Limehouse waved a hand dismissively. "Why would I tell you?"

For a third time that afternoon, the two men stared each other down. Limehouse tired of the game first and motioned to the door.

"Go on. Git."

Raylan took his time getting back to his car. He stood for a while, his fingers on the door handle, and listened to the cicadas, the heat bugs, so named for buzzing loudest on scorching summer days. It was one of those days and the buzzing grated. He eventually opened the car, took off his hat and threw it on the passenger seat, settled in and put the keys in the ignition. He thought back over the last week, organizing in his head what he knew for certain, and concluded only that you could never really know anyone. And that he'd learned a long time ago.

He started the car, turned around and headed back to Lexington.

* * *

It was still and muggy. Tim lay awake in the heat on top of the sheets. He rolled over and watched Miljana sleeping. She always slept like a baby, she said, though Tim had always heard people complaining that babies were up all night. Sleeping like the dead seemed a more accurate description. He watched her, the street lights' glow enough to make out the details of her face with the window open, and decided to get an air conditioning unit for the bedroom tomorrow. He missed curling up with her. It was just too hot.

He slipped quietly out of bed and picked his jeans up off the floor, fishing in the pockets for a piece of paper. He found it, tiptoed down the stairs, opened her computer and looked up addresses for the four names he'd written down, one in particular at the top of his list. He needed his own computer back to do much more tonight, and he didn't feel like sleeping. He poured himself a glass of bourbon and went out on the porch to sit and think.

* * *

 


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

Raylan followed Tim up to Cincinnati. He had signed out a different car from the pool and worried Art would notice and suspect his motives, but he worried more that Tim would recognize his Town car if he was watching the road behind him.

He tried to feel some guilt for furtively dogging a fellow Marshal but couldn't. He trusted Tim to have his back, trusted him to catch the bad guys. Could he trust Tim not to cross the line? No. Tim had done it before; and hell, he, Raylan, had done it before. Never for money, but what might push someone to it? What would he do with the skills Tim had? He told himself he was following the evidence and that's what a good lawman did, though occasionally something niggled, something lurked in the corners that he ignored, some doubt that maybe he was chasing his own conscience.

He parked down the street and waited, watching Tim take the steps two at time into a precinct of the local Police Department then an hour later he was tailing him into a Cincinnati suburb.

The winding crescents made it tricky to follow unnoticed. Raylan kept a good distance back, trusting his prey to keep a steady speed, predicting turns accordingly. Coming out of a bend he looked for Tim's truck ahead but the road was empty. He must have turned. Raylan drove slowly past the following two streets, searching, sped up and made the next turn.

"Shit," he cursed out loud. Tim had pulled over immediately around the corner and was watching in the rearview mirror. Raylan scrambled to pull off his hat and look the other way. He drove past at what he hoped was a leisurely pace, took the next street and parked a ways down. He sat in his car, his lips pressed tightly, angry with himself for not being more careful.

It was an older neighborhood of sixties-era bungalows and side-splits, big trees and overgrown shrubs, long front yards and plenty of shade. Raylan left his hat and climbed out of the car, walking cautiously back to the last turn. Tim's truck was still there but empty. Raylan frowned, quickened his step and looked around for the younger Marshal. He reached the next corner and caught a glimpse of Tim walking away down another street. He jogged to catch up, peered down the sidewalk from the cover of a large tree and stopped when he saw Tim's profile on the front step a few houses down. A woman came to the door. After a quick discussion, Tim showed her some identification and she let him in.

* * *

"No ma'am, I don't think you need to be concerned for your safety," Raylan assured the woman sitting across from him. Her name was Deborah Yoder. She was bewildered to have a second Marshal at her door all in one morning. She was also trusting to a fault and Raylan had easily talked his way into her house and was now drinking a glass of reconstituted lemonade and letting his eyes wander around the room, looking for some indication of why Tim had stopped here.

"There's been a rash of break-ins out in the suburban areas," he continued, "and our office has coincidentally had some complaints about a US Marshal asking odd questions at peoples' homes. We think it's part of a scam perpetrated by a gang casing houses. They knock on a door, pull a fake badge if someone answers, ask a few questions to make it seem legit, move on. If no one's there, they make a call, get a truck, clean the place out."

"He had a Marshal's badge, with the star on it and all," Deborah Yoder confirmed. "It looked just like yours. Do you think he was one of them?"

"I'm not sure, but I know for a fact he's not from the Cincinnati Bureau," Raylan replied truthfully.

The woman appeared to be in her early thirties, no kids, a husband or boyfriend in a photo with her on the shelf, a cat. Boyd would call the entire scene innocuous, the neighborhood, the house, the furniture, the woman, the lemonade. So why did Tim come here?

"Uh, Ms. Yoder, what did this fellow want exactly?"

"He said he was a friend of my husband's. They were in the Rangers together and he wanted to say hi. He knew his name and rank and everything. He wouldn't know that if he was casing my house, would he?"

"No ma'am, not likely. It sounds to me like he was a friend of your husband's, probably just passing through. There are certainly former Army Rangers in the Marshals Service. I know that for a fact. He said they served together?"

"That's right. In Iraq. He said they were both snipers."

" _Iraq_?" Raylan repeated, doubtful. "Are you sure?"

She nodded. "Tom was only ever in Iraq."

Raylan looked thoughtfully at her a moment, considering. Tim was never in Iraq, only Afghanistan. He asked, "Did you give him your husband's contact information?"

"I couldn't. Tom hasn't…" She hesitated, took a breath and wrung her hands. "He wasn't the same after he got out, after he came back from Iraq. He just couldn't settle down. He left. I haven't seen or heard from him in over a year."

Raylan nodded.

"The young man said he'd see if he could find him, get him to call me." She bit her lip, her eyes wet. "Do you think he meant it? That he'll try?"

"Why would he lie?" Raylan posed the question and smiled to reassure her. On his way out the door he asked it again but to himself, _why would he lie?_

* * *

Art thought back to his days in college playing football, running to intercept a play. Who would have guessed he'd need those skills almost daily in his role as Chief Deputy. He caught sight of Tim returning, jumped up and walked out to intercept him.

"Tim," he called, "you've got company again. I think it's the same group as earlier, but they all look alike to me. I suspect they changed their ties to try and throw me off."

He hooked a thumb over his shoulder toward the conference room. Tim peered past him and recognized Agent Thomson.

"They've made themselves comfortable. Been waiting for two hours to talk to you. I can't imagine what you'd have to say that would make me want to wait in an office drinking shit coffee for two hours to hear, but anyway… Shine the bat signal if you need me."

Tim's shoulders sagged. Art almost bit off his tongue in his efforts to stop himself making a sarcastic comment on the inappropriateness of a US Deputy Marshal pouting. He settled for patting Tim's shoulder then motioned him to the conference room.

Tim's handguns were sitting out on the table but no rifle. He wondered what that meant. Agent Thomson and Major Rand were there and a junior agent that Tim recognized from their visit earlier in the week.

Tim took a seat possessively by his handguns. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. He pointed at his Glock and raised his eyebrows.

"We're finished with them," Thomson confirmed.

Tim collected them up before they could change their minds. "Ammo?"

They slid over a box.

"Rifle?"

"That's one of the things we're here to talk to you about, Deputy," Thomson stated. "We tried to trace the original owner and couldn't. Apparently he moved to South Africa after you bought the weapon from him. We can't find any record of him there. We're checking ballistics with sister agencies in Europe and Africa, South America. We'll be holding it for a while longer."

"Okay," Tim sighed.

"Were you personally acquainted with him?" Rand questioned.

"Who?"

Rand huffed impatiently. "The original owner."

"No," Tim replied, reasonably confident that his buddy, Tim Weaver, never actually owned the rifle himself before depositing it with him.

They waited. Tim waited longer. Thomson opened a file and tossed a photo across the table with an aggressive motion. Tim turned it right ways up and glanced at it. He blinked and willed his features blank. He knew that was a telling reaction in itself but it was all he could manage under the circumstances. It was a clear photo of Weaver walking out from the side of his house the day he came to warn him about the investigation.

"Who is that?" demanded Thomson.

Tim shrugged.

"He's leaving your house, Deputy. Don't deny you know him. It'll reflect poorly on you if this is the man we're looking for."

"Does that mean I'm no longer under investigation?"

"No. It means you're now firmly at the top of our list," Rand replied. "We have some pretty sophisticated facial recognition software. This man is a person of interest to the FBI."

"Then you already know who he is," said Tim.

A commotion in the bullpen drew everyone's attention. Two more suits marched into the Marshals office and Art moved to intercept them, holding up his hands to stop their progress. Identification came out and the Chief Deputy gave it some serious scrutiny before turning to look in the conference room, his expression suggesting he'd just been told Elvis was still alive. He led the new suits into the room with the old suits, crossed his arms on his chest and shrugged at Tim.

The identification came out again and Thomson and Rand exchanged a look of disbelief. The new suits started collecting up the photos and files on the table.

"What are you doing?" Thomson exclaimed. "We're conducting an investigation into murders on US soil. You have no business interfering."

"You made it our business when you made certain inquiries. If you'll come with us, we have some things to discuss. And if I may make a suggestion, you're wasting your time investigating Deputy Gutterson."

Tim grabbed his box of ammunition and stood up beside Art. The two of them watched silently as the new suits led the somewhat older suits out of the office.

"Well, that was a surprise," Art commented. "CIA. That's a first for me. Should we place bets on who's next? NSA? Homeland Security maybe?"

Tim frowned, clutching his handguns like a favorite blanket.

* * *

Raylan walked back into the office later and noted Tim at his desk, his head down engrossed in a file. Art waved to Raylan and he sauntered over and leaned in the door.

"What's up?"

"How was Cincinnati?" Art asked pointedly.

Raylan froze; the guilt in large print for Art to read even without his glasses.

"You know, maybe next time you and Tim could drive up together, save the US citizens some tax money."

Raylan narrowed his eyes at Art. "Did Tim see me?"

"I don't know. Go ask him. And while you're at it, find out if he's interested in getting transferred out of Lexington. I figure one of you has to go if this keeps up."

Raylan walked fully into the office and closed the door. "How did…?"

"Raylan, I'm not as stupid as I look. And unless I look really stupid, you'd have to believe that I'd figure it out. Why else would you sign out a different car from the pool and leave a minute behind Tim?"

Raylan was trying think of a way to spin his insubordination into something helpful, but Art beat him to it.

"Actually, I'm glad you went. It's good he has an alibi. This whole thing is just weird. We had the CIA in here this afternoon."

"The CIA?"

"Uh-huh, the CIA, the FBI and CID. We're just missing the DEA, the NSA and the PTA."

Raylan took a seat. "What did they want, all your TLAs?"

"Hell if I know," Art replied.

Raylan frowned and Art sat studying him.

"Gee Raylan, you look upset. Did you want to be the one transferred out?"

Raylan made a face, stood up and walked back to his desk. Tim looked up.

"Hey."

"Hey," Raylan replied, stopping to look over Tim's computer at the crime scene photos spread out on the keyboard. "De Luca file?"

"Yep."

"Anything interesting?"

Tim tossed the file from his lap onto his desk and cocked his head. "Why do you care?"

Raylan looked blandly back. "Forget it."

Tim's eyes followed Raylan as he walked around to his desk, sat down and started shuffling through his phone messages. Raylan felt like he was on stage in a one-man play and finally turned to address his audience.

"What?" he asked tersely, glaring at Tim who was sitting calmly watching him.

"I never could understand why you always wear your hat driving."

* * *

 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

Miljana's breath caught in her throat when she saw Raylan at the door. He looked worried, rolling his hat in his hand, loosening a stone stuck on the door mat with his boot. Bad news, she thought unconsciously wrapping an arm around herself. She pushed the screen door open and waited.

Raylan was trying to decide how best to ask a question. A glance up at her face forced a quick rewrite of the conversation playing out in his head and his first words were instead reassurance. He hastily put on a smile. "He's fine. He was sitting at his desk when I left."

Miljana closed her eyes and raised her hands in surrender to relief. "Thank you. That's the perfect way to start a conversation with the partner of someone in law enforcement."

"I just wanted to ask you something." He tapped his hat back on and grimaced. "Didn't mean to frighten you."

"You couldn't help but. It would've been worse if you were Art." She moved over and held the door open, inviting. "It's almost four and it's Friday. Do you want a beer?"

He accepted the offer and stepped inside. They made small talk for a while but when Miljana decided he was as comfortable as he was ever going to get on this visit she prodded, "You had a question?"

Raylan opened his mouth then stopped and shut it. He worked his face through a few more false starts while she waited patiently then finally rejected his rehearsed smoother versions and asked bluntly, "Was Tim ever in Iraq?"

Her shoulders sagged. "Honestly, every psychologist should spend time in a Marshals office to experience first-hand all the pitfalls and perils of their profession." She looked at him thoughtfully. "I assume you have a good reason for asking?"

Raylan sized her up. This girl was not Deborah Yoder. "I assume he told you he's under suspicion for some contract murders?"

Her face closed faster than a betting gate at the bell. "Yes," she confirmed. "His having been in Iraq or not is going to clear his name?"

"It'll help clear it with me."

"You don't trust him," she stated, a sliver of sadness, for Tim maybe, for Raylan maybe. "Who _do_ you trust, Raylan?"

"Myself," he shot back. His voice betrayed a touch of annoyance at the question, though she hadn't asked to irritate him, hadn't meant it as an attack. Her manner suggested curiosity and it disarmed him. He felt his anger evaporate before it had time to build and he added to soften his tone, "I don't get Tim, or what motivates him. It's hard to judge what someone is capable of doing without knowing what motivates them."

She reached over and grabbed his beer bottle. "I think he just wants people to be able to picture him without a rifle."

"That's not that easy," Raylan commented.

"Stretch yourself, Raylan," she suggested. "Fresh eyes, every day."

"Are you suggesting people change?"

"No. I'm suggesting that our perceptions can be wrong and need constant supervision." She paused, considered the beer a moment, took a good drink and passed it back. "There, we've shared the peace pipe."

He looked at her, his expression bemused, hers mischievous. His mouth slipped into a lop-sided grin and he began to understand her relationship with Tim. He decided they deserved each other.

"The answer is yes, he was in Iraq," she offered, solving one piece of the puzzle for him, "but not even twenty-four hours. In fact, I think he said he was there for, like, twelve."

"Twelve hours?" Raylan repeated incredulously. "Did he get lost on his way to Kandahar and decide to take a bus tour of the sights?"

"No." She rolled her eyes and grinned at the idea then explained, "He tells me that Special Ops troops would often be sent out on patrol immediately upon deployment, straight from the landing strip to a briefing then out. They hadn't gotten far from base, Bombaconda he called it, when their convoy was attacked. IED I think. You'll have to ask him for the details. He ended up in a hospital somewhere and filed his discharge papers right after." She shrugged and finished. "He never went back."

"Bombaconda? Descriptive, I hope, not the actual name?"

"They also call it Mortaritaville. Sounds like a nice place for a vacation, doesn't it?"

"You've learned some lingo," he said, quirking a smile at her.

"He's my pet project. If he were Plato, I'd be throwing in some Ancient Greek."

He wiped the condensation off the label on his beer bottle and took another drink. " _Iraq_. Huh. He's never spoken of it."

"Not much to say, really."

"I guess not."

Miljana was sitting facing Raylan and studied his expression while he was distracted. "How are things with you?" she asked kindly, aware of his troubles with Arlo and Winona.

He looked sideways at her and grinned wryly, wagging a finger. "Uh-uh, we are _not_ going there. Two Marshals on your couch? You'd be burned out trying to save us all and Tim would hate me for it. He's already threatened at least a dozen times to shoot me."

"A dozen?" she laughed. "He must really like you."

"Why? 'Cause I'm still breathing?"

"No, more of a 'steal the girl's hat in the schoolyard' sort of thing." She turned serious. "Should I be jealous?"

"I don't think you need to worry. You're much prettier than I am."

"That's not saying much."

"What," he joked, pulling back and looking offended. "You don't think I'm pretty?"

"Raylan, I'm just not that kind of boy," she teased.

He grinned, finished off his beer and got up to leave. Stopping on the porch, he turned to ask her one more thing. "I don't mean to put you in an awkward position, but would you mind…"

She crossed her arms. "I can't promise anything, but I'll keep this conversation to myself for now unless you give me reason not to."

"Fair enough," he conceded, "and more than I expected." He tipped his hat courteously and walked slowly down the steps thinking, opened the gate at the end of the walk and headed to his car.

* * *

Tim liked coming home Fridays. It wasn't because he had the next two days off, in fact he was on the schedule as first-call this weekend for the Lexington Bureau and his SOG team was on standby as well, but Fridays Miljana only worked a half day and she generally did some shopping, made sure there was cold beer in the fridge and often had dinner waiting. Provided he wasn't kept late, Fridays were a wind-down bliss. Five years ago, he would have scoffed at so much domesticity, now he craved it.

He got out of his truck and was greeted by _Chickenfoot_ blasting out onto the porch and carrying on down the street. The song ended as he approached the door and he heard Miljana laughing before an older _Chili's_ tune started up, _The Righteous & The Wicked. _Fucking Weaver, he thought, so much for domestic bliss.

"Turn it the fuck up," he yelled, stepping inside.

Miljana bounced into the hall and jumped on him. "Howdy," she said and kissed him hard.

He laughed, feeling the week evaporate. "Company, huh? You started drinking without me. I'm hurt."

"How else am I supposed to cope with your friends?"

On cue, Tim Weaver popped his head out from the kitchen. "Hey buddy, hope you don't mind the music. I know it's a little soft for your taste but I can't stand your heavy-metal dweedly-dweedly guitar shit."

Weaver was looking scruffy, growing his beard again, maybe setting up for a trip to Pakistan. He had his arms spread wide reminding Tim of Sunday school pictures of Moses parting the Red Sea. Tim was sure Weaver was responsible for the new suits showing up and chasing away the old ones, and looking at him walking down the hall he wondered what other miracles he might conjure on this visit.

"Drop your girlfriend and I'll give you a hug," his buddy offered.

Tim hoisted Miljana into a more comfortable hold and carried her into the kitchen.

"Fine, asshole," Weaver grumbled. "So this is the thanks I get for saving your bacon."

"I thought I could smell you," Tim jabbed. "How much shit did you get for that photo?"

"Not too much. It was worth it. I told my people to get you off the list when they showed it to me last month but the fuckers wouldn't listen. I forced it. Couldn't have the Feds looking too hard and tripping over me without anyone knowing, so I put it front and center to shut them down."

"Well I appreciate it. Seeing your face in that photo floored me," Tim admitted and set down his girlfriend. "Do you really need a hug or is another beer and some dinner enough?"

"I'll take a beer, dinner and a hug from your girlfriend instead."

Tim thought the price steep but Miljana paid out before he could protest.

* * *

He chambered a round, shouldered the rifle, aimed, breathed, squeezed, the entire process taking less than five seconds. A standing shot of any accuracy was difficult with a sniper rifle. The military didn't spend much time training their snipers for it since every Ranger was a rifleman anyway and a shoulder shot would never be good at any distance, not until the technology got there. Tim found it a handy skill in his civilian career, however, and took time out at the range every Sunday morning to practice at least a magazine's worth. It was his prayer time, his version of church.

It wasn't that good a grouping, using a borrowed rifle, but he hit his target center of mass. The Feds still had his and Tim wondered if he'd ever get it back. It pissed him off.

He finished up and turned back to the trailer, the office for the distance range. Most Sunday mornings would find him here. Fischer, the owner, let him shoot whatever he wanted for as long as he wanted, only paying for the rounds, and in return Tim zeroed in the rifles and helped with maintenance when he could, civilized symbiosis.

Miljana had come up with him today with a thermos of coffee. Art had suggested that it might be a good idea if Tim had an alibi wherever he went. Miljana's mother was not at all pleased when she missed church; the Orthodox congregation was small and her absence was noted and commented on. Tim could hear her chatting with someone when he pulled out the ear plugs and he wandered around behind the trailer to the picnic table to join her.

She was sitting with Ellstin Limehouse.

"Hey, I've still got some coffee left. Do you want some?" she asked smiling, obviously enjoying her conversation.

Limehouse turned in his seat and grinned. Tim nodded a yes to coffee, not taking his eyes off her companion. She looked from one man to the other and realized she'd crossed into his work life. With an effort she kept the smile on but it was now strained.

"More coffee, Ellstin?" she offered.

"That would be lovely." He held his cup toward her, still watching Tim.

Tim looked Limehouse over then moved his eyes in a sweep, searching the area.

"I'm all alone this morning, Deputy."

Tim ignored him and continued his surveillance, pulling a loose round from his pocket and slipping it into the rifle, working the bolt.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Limehouse?" he asked. "Raylan's not here."

"And I'm not here to see Raylan. It's you that's keeping me from church this morning, you and your lovely lady."

Tim walked over and sat down beside him, back to the trailer, leaning his weapon against his leg. "You're a ways from Noble's Holler."

"I was moved by your troubles with the FBI. Thought maybe I could help."

Tim looked over. "I suspect you're being here will make it worse. Just what d'you think you can do to help?"

"Offer up some information."

"Okay."

"There's some folk in Tennessee who are none too happy that their kin are locked up in Kentucky, and for kidnapping no less. That's a long haul. It'll keep them a while from family dinners, I reckon. These Tennessee folk have aimed their anger at a particular inmate that you and I are acquainted with."

"Dickie Bennett."

"Mm-hmm. Now, those Tennessee boys who are guests of our state's fine prison are keeping up their end of the bargain, keeping their lips sealed about any money out there, but…"

"But the folks in Tennessee are still sniffing around for it," Tim finished for him.

"That's right."

"Do you know who they hired to pull the hit on Dickie?" Tim was beginning to see where this was going and why it was in his interest to follow.

"Don't have a name for you, but I understand the FBI are looking for someone with your sort of training and from the rumors I've heard, they're not wrong in their thinking. I figure you'd have a better idea than most who else might be on a list with you."

Tim was silent, thinking, wishing he didn't know what Limehouse was talking about, wishing he could go disappear for a few months. "Actually I've seen the list," he eventually said.

Limehouse nodded. "I can help you get to the folks in Tennessee, maybe get something from them that'd help extricate yourself from suspicion. That's about all I can do."

"How did you know I was a suspect?"

"Word travels."

"How exactly does word travel?"

"There's a Marshal sniffing into this business, too. Only he's sniffing for a shooter not for money. He came to see me, asked if you and I ever did any work together. Told me about the FBI. Told me his suspicions. I'd like to see the trust restored."

Tim let out a sharp breath, angry. "What's in it for you, Mr. Limehouse? Maybe I'm cynical, but I just can't believe you're that interested in the restoration of harmony in the Marshals Office."

Limehouse dismissed the idea with a snort. "Maybe I could start a newspaper column. _Dear Limehouse_. You could be my first letter. Oh, woe is me, Mr. Limehouse. My friends don't trust me, Mr. Limehouse. They're thinking I contract out for wet work. What should I do? Signed a boy with a rifle, a deadly eye, and a good instinct for killing. Heh, heh, heh." Ellstin shook his head, chuckling at his own joke. "No, I am a business man, Deputy. You and Marshal Givens are an excellent resource and I always look after the tools of my trade. Now the Tennessee gang, they will be coming for Loretta. I need eyes on her and you might want to chat with whoever turns up. I get something, you get something."

"Is Loretta a tool of the trade as well?"

Limehouse grinned. "We all have our foibles."

He got up from the table and tipped his hat at Miljana. "Young lady, a pleasant surprise being able to pass some time with you this morning." He turned to Tim and said, "Deputy."

Tim watched Limehouse drive away then looked at Miljana.

"Wow," she said, eyes wide, shaking her head. "You get way more interesting characters in your job than I do. It's better than a TV show."

* * *

 


	11. Chapter 11

* * *

He remembered regretting the promotion almost as soon as it came through. Better pay, more responsibility, that was all good, but they needed experienced NCOs in Iraq and when he received the orders for his next deployment, Sgt. Gutterson realized the full implication of his new rank. A war zone was a war zone, he told himself, being in the suck was being in the suck. Afghanistan to Iraq; he was just jumping from one sandbox to another. But that wasn't quite right and he knew it.

Pete, his long-time spotter, his best friend, was philosophical: a change is as good as a rest, he joked when they were sent for specialized urban combat training. They spent a week at a range with some Iraq veterans afterward, snipers, learning the style of fighting particular to the area, closer shooting, multiple targets, and shortcuts in calculating trajectories for rapid re-aiming. With so much time behind a rifle scope already, Tim and his buddy picked up the techniques quickly, all they lacked was experience.

The explosion rocked their vehicle and it skidded to a halt. Less than four hours on the ground and they were already in it, responding to the shouted command, "5's and 25's." They scrambled out onto the road, set up a defensive perimeter and helped the wounded. The bullet went in under Pete's armor; the Iraqi insurgents knew where to fire and were getting good at hitting their mark. Pete bled out in minutes. Tim yelled for a medic, but there was nothing anyone could do for Pete and nothing anyone could do for the medic, nearly cut in half, taking the EFP through the chest in his seat beside the door. His vehicle had caught the full impact of the IED.

It sucked all right. Tim had replayed that day in his head a thousand times. There was no rational reason for his feelings but in his mind Pete dying in Afghanistan somehow would have hurt less, they were invested there. This just seemed senseless, no time at all, nothing accomplished.

He tried to push the highlights from that day out of his head, tired of watching the playback. He forced himself to focus on the scenery flashing past and eventually realized Raylan was speaking to him.

"What?" he asked, turning to look at him, coming back to Kentucky, to the car.

"Where were you?" Raylan huffed, eyes on the road.

"Just thinking."

"Sure you weren't sleeping?" Raylan jabbed irritably.

Raylan was ruminating on some personal history as well. Art asked him to go along with Tim to check into the prison shooting, an experienced set of eyes and ears and an alibi just in case. It meant seeing Dickie Bennett and that always left Raylan tetchy. He had never wanted to be caught up in the family feud, stuck in a vicious vortex of misdirected hate, the Hatfields and the McCoys. The older he got, the more he despised any dealings with the Bennetts, hated any time wasted with Dickie. He wished Tim, or Boyd even, _somebody_ , would just put a bullet in him, do the job right once and for all.

"Anyway, I was just saying, Dickie's convinced you pulled the trigger," Raylan repeated. "He swears he saw you out there, saw the bullet coming even."

Tim snorted at the ridiculousness of it. "Did he calm down after I left?"

"Not much. Oddly, he wasn't too happy to see me either. He figures I was sitting beside you, pointing him out in the pumpkin patch." Raylan wagged his head. "Understandable, I guess, why he'd think that."

"Another Bennett for my trophy wall and an end to the feud for the Givens," Tim recited, distracted. He was thinking about Pete again. He shook himself out of it, closed his eyes, opened them again quickly before he could make out the picture forming. "What about you? Are you still convinced I shot him?"

"More than ever, now I have Dickie's word on it." Raylan looked over and grinned wickedly.

"You really think I'd shoot people for money?"

Raylan scratched his head and thought about it. Hearing it put that bluntly changed his perceptions a little.

"I don't know, Tim. Honestly, I doubt it. But," he qualified, "you told me Dickie's shooting's not even on the Fed's list for the contract killer. We could easily have two different gunmen, two separate crimes. Good way to cover your tracks."

"Tell you what," Tim offered wearily. "If Dickie's wound doesn't go septic, I'll get me a Barrett and take you out and show you how it's supposed to be done. If I'm going to get blamed I might as well have the fun."

"I'll pack a lunch."

The silence was distracting after that, full of unasked questions and unasked for thoughts. Raylan wanted a glimpse of what was hidden in the brooding quiet coming from the passenger seat. The puzzle that Limehouse had started laying out last week was no further along. In fact Raylan was starting to think he'd begun it in the middle. He was missing the first few dots, scrambling to work his way back to the start and finish it at the same time.

"Did you find anything interesting in the police report on Dickie's shooting?" he queried.

"Nothing unexpected. There was more to tell in the De Luca file," Tim replied, grasping for something to distract himself from the memories pushing in. He licked his lips, concentrating. "There was a second bullet."

He seemed willing to discuss it today and Raylan gave him some encouragement. "So?" he shrugged.

"So, you ever heard of a two sniper hit team? Not military or LEO but private, I mean?" Tim asked.

"No."

"Me neither. Doesn't seem likely. So one guy shoots twice from 300 plus yards, only seconds apart at two targets, one stationary, one not. Forensics suggests the first shot missed and De Luca was up and moving after the window shattered, and that's when the second shot hit him. They think he fell in the chair, but was originally sitting on the couch."

"So?" Raylan prodded again.

"So, well, it's nothing conclusive. It's just…" Tim hesitated.

"It's just what?"

"It's just…it supports my suspicions."

"Which are?"

"Which are just my suspicions," Tim responded gruffly, sorry he'd opened that conversation.

"Someone you knew in the Rangers?" Raylan fished. "Tom Yoder, maybe?"

Tim glared at him. "You knocked on her door after I left," he accused, getting angry.

Raylan didn't deny it. "How many snipers are on that list with you, Tim? And you went straight to that house first. Why?"

Tim turned away and started counting telephone poles, out loud.

Raylan raised his voice over the counting. "CID and the Feds are all over this and you immediately track _one_ guy. What do you know that they don't?"

Tim stopped at seven and went quiet. Raylan figured he was still counting poles in his head, but eventually he sighed and explained his thinking. "There are ten names on that list, mostly Rangers, and I did combat time with all of them but three. You get to know someone in a war zone when they're tired and on edge and scared. I mean, you _know_ them."

Tim had turned to face Raylan. He was passionate about the subject, his words coming out edgy and his hands moving to emphasize each statement.

"One of the guys, he never even fired his weapon over there. He was a great spotter, a good marksman on the range, and we all just pretended we didn't notice. CID, the Feds, they wouldn't know that. Even our officers didn't know it. He was a great guy to have around up on a hill pointing out targets for us, watching our backs. Great instincts. But there's no way he's coming back to civilian life and picking up wet work for pay." Tim spat out the last words in disgust.

Raylan nodded. "Makes sense."

"And another thing," he paused again and continued, a little calmer, "Iraq and Afghanistan, different and alike. For the snipers, Iraq was shorter shots, more targets, more rapid firing. When I got my orders for Iraq, me and the other Afghan snipers, we spent as much time as possible at the range with the Iraq vets, learning their tricks. I had plenty of experience with long shots, but moving quickly from one target to the next, that's a different skill set. It takes practice."

"So, certain personality, Iraq vet," Raylan listed the points, "that's how you narrowed it down to one?"

"Well, four. But the other three, only 'cause I don't know them well. They're Marines."

Raylan considered the idea of knowing someone well enough to be able to say confidently what they were or weren't capable of. He wasn't sure he believed in it. He had a thought and put it out there. "The others on the list, would they be able to cross you off?"

Tim didn't answer right away and when he finally did his reply surprised Raylan, the jaded Marshal, the man who thought nothing anyone could say would surprise him anymore.

"No."

It gave Raylan plenty to think about on the drive back to Lexington.

* * *

"I need your help, Raylan," Tim said into the phone and then he couldn't stop himself; he started laughing. He knew by the way Raylan answered the call that he'd woken him out of a sound sleep. It was just after one o'clock in the morning.

"What the fuck, Tim? What time is it?" Raylan snarled. "Is this some kind of pathetic payback for getting you up and dragging you down to Harlan a couple weeks ago?"

"Oh, now, that would've been even funnier. No, I really do need your help," said Tim, peering out of the windshield of his car. "I'm tailing Loretta downtown and I think I just recognized someone from Rodney Dunham's gang tailing her, too."

"What? Why are you tailing Loretta?"

"I'm moonlighting for the drug squad," Tim replied sarcastically. "She's moved up from weed."

"Yeah, I know," Raylan sighed, sounding dejected. Tim could hear him rustling around, probably throwing on some clothes. "Where are you? You can explain to me what the fuck you're doing when I get there. Maybe I'll be awake by then."

Tim gave him the street address and hung up. He grinned. Maybe he'd start calling Raylan in the middle of the night once a week, kind of like therapy. It was good for the soul.

Loretta hadn't moved while he was on the phone. She was the center of attention, standing like a celebrity in a circle of kids, not kids, adults, and there was no doubt in Tim's mind that Loretta, the youngest, was running this show. Damn she's smart and worldly-wise and fucked up, thought Tim. An uninitiated observer would never have guessed she was sixteen, so much confidence and anger.

Tim pictured the mayhem if LPD were to cruise by just now and grinned. Then he wished a cruiser would do a pass. He was pretty certain he'd spotted two more lackeys from the Tennessee gang in a beater down the block and possibly a third in the alley near Loretta. That made four, including the lurker in the shadows across the street that he'd picked up on first, and Tim didn't much like those odds if he had to run interference before Raylan showed up.

Fortunately Raylan didn't live far and fifteen minutes later he slipped noiselessly into the passenger's seat.

"Nice car," he commented.

"It's Milja's. I figured it would blend into the scenery here better since she scraped it against a wall last month."

"What is Loretta doing?" Raylan asked leaning forward, watching her.

"She and her two bodyguards are passing out party favors," Tim explained. "Third gang of buyers tonight."

"Bodyguards? You mean those two kids against the wall?"

"I use the term loosely. Do you suppose they're carrying?"

"Shit, I hope not. They might hurt somebody."

Tim pointed out the four men he figured were associated with Dunham from Tennessee. "I recognize the one fellow. He's the poor idiot that Rachel dropped when we were trying to get Rodney's cooperation against Dickie."

"Huh, I think he's still standing funny."

"And I think that's one of Limehouse's guys across the road in the other direction. We're having a Harlan party right here in Lexington. It's just didn't seem right without you so I thought I'd call."

"Tim, though I do appreciate that you're looking out for Loretta, I have to ask, why exactly are you here?"

"Trying to clear my name," Tim replied, looking pointedly at Raylan.

"And you think saving Loretta twice in one month is going to convince me you didn't shoot Dickie?"

"I doubt there's anything you or I could do to save Loretta, but that's another discussion. Limehouse tells me that the people behind Dickie's shooting are the same folk who are chasing the Bennett money, and they're the same folk who are apparently _still_ chasing the Bennett money." Tim indicated down the street. "He suggested I might get some information on Dickie's shooter if I have a chat with them. A name would be nice."

"When were you talking to Limehouse?"

Tim cocked his head and drawled out slowly, "Like I said before, Sunday mornings at the shooting range, church, brunch."

Raylan thought the Gutterson snark needed a smack down tonight. Left unchecked it could get ugly. But things were about to get interesting outside the car, pre-empting any further exchange of sarcasm. The party down the street was breaking up and the shoppers were drifting off leaving Loretta alone with her two bodyguards, her four shadows, Limehouse's watcher and two cranky US Marshals.

* * *

 


	12. Chapter 12

 

* * *

It was back to business for the marshals, feelings put aside.

"I'll handle the idiots in the car," offered Raylan.

"Okay," Tim said. "Let me get up behind the scumbag in the alley. I can take care of him and it'll give me a clear shot at the lurker across the street."

"Done." Raylan still couldn't see the man in the alley Tim was referring to, but he trusted he was there if Tim said so.

"Maybe we should wait until they make a move," Tim suggested. "It'll give us something to hold them on. We haven't got anything right now except loitering, maybe carrying a concealed weapon."

"I'm not sure I want to wait. I'm a little worried about Beavis and Butthead," said Raylan, gesturing at Loretta's security detail. "They're kind of a wildcard in all this."

"If I move fast, I can put the guy in the alley out of commission before anything goes down. That'll give me time to get in closer. Get in between her and lurker dude. What do you think?" He deferred to Raylan's experience.

"I think Art's going to have a fit and transfer us both out of Kentucky," Raylan replied, then added, "I don't want anything to happen to Loretta. Let's just deal with them first and figure out how to get what we want out of it afterward."

Raylan started out of the car but Tim grabbed his arm to stop him. "I need to talk to one of them, Raylan. Just one."

"Don't worry. If it comes to that, I'll take you down to Tennessee myself to see Mr. Rodney Dunham. I think I need a word with the man."

"I'll hold you to it."

They split up. Raylan jogged down the block one way; Tim sprinted the other.

As Tim reached the far end of the alley, the two in the car started their engine. They had taken off the muffler, or maybe it had dropped off, and the noise rattling around the buildings made it easy for Tim to walk up behind his man and get him in a choke hold. _Dumb_ , thought Tim while the man struggled, _over-confident and dumb_. He passed out in seconds and Tim cuffed him to a dumpster, checked him for weapons then cautiously approached the street staying in the shadows. The lurker had his hands in the pocket of his hoodie, still across the street, and was trying to look inconspicuous walking casually to a point opposite Loretta. Tim peered around the corner and waited, watching as Raylan approached the other two.

Raylan opened the back door to the car and climbed in holding his sidearm. It was a move he'd used time and time again and he never tired of seeing the surprise on the faces of whatever idiots were sitting in the front seats.

"Hey fellows," he greeted them. "Nice ride. 1977 Chevy Nova, good engine. Body could use a little work though, got some rust. Too bad you went for the four-door. It'll never really count as a muscle car with the extra doors and it makes it easy for someone like me to get the drop on you. Now, turn off the engine and pass me the keys."

"Who the hell are you?" the driver exclaimed.

"Does it really matter?" Raylan answered. "I've got my gun out. You don't. Keys."

The driver did as he was told.

"Thank you very much," said Raylan. He pocketed the keys, pulled his backup and pointed a gun at each of them. "Either of you idiots carrying?"

They both nodded.

"Uh-huh. Well, take out your weapons, slowly, and drop them out your window. Either of you gets up the nerve to try and pull on me, I'll shoot you both. It'll make a mess but it's laundry day tomorrow so I don't mind."

Raylan smiled at them when they'd finished following instructions and plunked a pair of handcuffs on the driver's lap. "Your left hand, his right hand, through the steering wheel."

They sheepishly obliged. Confident they were no longer a threat, Raylan got out of the car. He collected up the handguns and leaned in the window. "Don't go anywhere. I'll be back in a minute."

Tim watched the lurker turn around when the engine shut off and stare dumbfounded down the block at the activity in the car, his back to the alley. The distraction gave Tim plenty of time to sprint across the street, putting himself between the man and Loretta.

"US Marshal, stop right there and turn around," he called out only a few feet from him, Glock pointed down. "Show me your hands."

The man turned to face the new threat and tried to pull his gun from his pocket. Tim raised his level to the man's chest.

"Don't," he stated simply. "Hands up where I can see them."

The lurker hesitated.

"I'd do what he says if I were you," Raylan commented coming at him from down the sidewalk, his sidearm drawn as well. "He'll shoot you dead, I can promise you that. Maybe we'll both shoot you, see which way you fall."

The man wisely pulled his hands clear and raised them quickly. Tim holstered his weapon and moved to disarm and cuff him while Raylan covered. It took Tim a minute to pull out the revolver the man had stuffed into the pocket of his hoodie. It was caught up in the seams of the fabric.

"Oh for fuck's sake, you idiot," Tim cursed. "Get bigger pockets or a smaller handgun."

In his periphery, Raylan caught sight of Loretta's body guards trying to pull her down the street. He turned, put a hand up pointing and called out, "Just hold on a minute. I need to talk to her."

They ignored him and kept moving.

"Loretta!" Raylan barked.

She stopped. "It's okay, boys," she said. "The Marshals aren't here for the drugs, are you Marshals?" She directed the last part at Raylan.

"No," he stated in exasperation. "In the two weeks since we last spoke they still haven't added drugs to our already extensive list of responsibilities. Okay?"

Loretta crossed her arms and scowled. "Okay. Then why are you here?"

He gestured at the man Tim was putting in handcuffs. Loretta shrugged. Raylan rolled his lips tightly until they disappeared and glared at her. "Someone kidnapped you last time I saw you, remember? Well, they're at it again. What the hell are you doing out on the street at this hour on a school night?"

Loretta cocked her head, reminding Raylan again of Tim, and he wondered just what that signified.

"Marshal," she stated, "while I am grateful for your timely intervention, how do you expect me to run my business from my current residence. It's a daycare."

"It's not a daycare, Loretta. It's a nice house that just happens to have kids living in it." Raylan paused and took an impatient breath. "Besides, why are you still running your business?" He walked over to her as he spoke and added quietly, for her ears only, "It's not like you need the money."

"Surely you must understand how I view that money?" said Loretta, emotion finally seeping into her features from the depths.

"Loretta, it's an opportunity."

"It smells like rot." She spat the words out.

Raylan screwed his eyebrows together in a tight knot of consternation and took a step back. "What are you going to do with it then?" he asked.

"I am certain a use will come to me in time." It came out a threat.

"Loretta…"

"Marshal, thank you for your assistance this evening," she dismissed him. "I'd better be hurrying home. As you rightly pointed out, it's a school night."

He reached out and grabbed her arm. "Loretta…"

Her bodyguards, emboldened by her attitude, stepped up to the plate.

"Let her go," said one, and lifted his shirt to show off his shiny new gun.

"Or what?" Raylan scoffed at him. "You're going to shoot me?"

"Maybe."

"Well, not before my partner shoots you," Raylan pointed out. Tim was behind him, Glock out and aimed.

"Right about now," Raylan snapped, "I'd normally be giving my 'I don't draw unless I'm aiming to kill' speech, but you're nothing but a punk, so I'm just going to slap you upside the head instead." Raylan reached out and smacked him, open palm, messing his hair and knocking him sideways. He then snatched the revolver from his waist. "Tim, would you…"

Tim was already on it, patting down bodyguard number two. He shrugged when he found nothing, raised his eyebrows at Raylan and motioned with his hand. "You want me to…?"

Raylan nodded an affirmative, giving in to the ridiculousness of it all. Tim smacked the second one, trying hard not to smirk.

"Now, get out of here," snarled Raylan, motioning with the confiscated weapon.

"What are you, her dad or something?" the first one asked, putting on a mean face and trying to regain some importance in the group with his bravado.

"Yeah, sure, I'm her dad. And this is her uncle, the contract killer," Raylan huffed, waving at Tim. "Uncle Tim, would you mind doing these two for free?"

"Anything for family," Tim obliged and pulled his sidearm again.

Beavis and Butthead bugged out. Raylan watched them run but didn't have it in him to find it at all amusing. He reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose then exchanged a frustrated look with Tim.

"Did you have to do that?" Loretta demanded angrily. "They work for me. You're undermining my authority."

"They _work_ for you?" Raylan looked aghast, closed his eyes briefly. "Well, I'm glad to hear one of them isn't your boyfriend," he said. "Come on, let's get you home."

Raylan glanced at the Nova then at Tim. "Can I borrow your car, mine's a few blocks up?"

Tim blinked, passed over his keys. "Yeah, I'll just stay here with the four stooges. Please, take your time."

* * *

Raylan took Miljana's car and drove Loretta back to the suburbs. He tried to draw her out but she stuck to one word responses in answer to his attempts. She got out at her house and said goodbye, courteous but cold. He waited until she was safely inside then went back to meet Tim.

Raylan rounded the corner and pulled up to the curb behind the old Chevy. Tim had seated his two in the back of the car and was now half a block down, leaning in the window of an LPD cruiser, laughing it up with the officer driving. He stood up when he saw Raylan, waved a goodnight to the policemen and strolled back.

"Didn't want them looking too closely," he explained.

Raylan nodded.

"Listen," Tim continued, "these guys don't know shit. I tried. Is there any way you can get me down to see Dunham?"

Raylan stood thinking for a minute. "Let's go talk to Limehouse. He'll know how to get in touch with him." He looked at the four sitting in the Nova. "Maybe Rodney will want to make a trade."

Tim peered in the front seat. "We don't have enough handcuffs."

Raylan turned in a circle, checking out the street, the dark, quiet buildings. "Let's stuff them in the trunk. Two each. Do you think your girlfriend will mind?"

Tim snorted and leaned on the beater. "Go get your car. I'll wait."

* * *

 


	13. Chapter 13

* * *

Limehouse was sitting on the porch of his diner expecting visitors, his men on the bridge into Noble's Holler and his man in Lexington communicating the night's events. He stood up, hands in his pockets, and watched the Marshals pull in, at his ease knowing his men were in the shadows, armed and ready. A smile tipped up the sides of his mouth, fleeting. He imagined this was a normal night in the 1920's for his great-grandfather during prohibition, just remove the newer cars and the cell phones, trade the meth for moonshine. He would like to have imagined it as a more civilized era of crime but he knew better than to believe that.

Car doors opened and Limehouse moved down the steps coming to a stop in the middle of the lawn and peering through the dark at the interiors, now lit.

"I was anticipating you'd come with some extra company," he called out, noting only one man in each vehicle.

Tim shut the door on the Nova. It made the satisfying thud of metal on metal, a vintage sound, and it rattled the car enough to provoke some muffled squawking from the trunk.

"Heh," Limehouse grinned. "You put them in the first-class cabins."

The Marshals strolled up the lawn to meet him.

"I'm surprised to see you two working together," Limehouse commented. "I expected you'd have shot each other by now."

"Oh, it hasn't come to that," Raylan replied, scratching his chin.

"Yet," Tim added.

Limehouse shook his head. "You two behave like family."

"Not here even five minutes and you're already insulting me," Raylan responded and looked to Tim for his turn at a quip.

Tim screwed his face up, pretending to think. "I'd have to agree with him, Raylan, particularly if it insults you."

Limehouse eyed them both and decided it best to intervene. "I took the liberty of contacting Mr. Rodney 'Hot Rod' Dunham of Tennessee," he said. "He's agreed to a meeting tomorrow morning. He's in Nashville on business and is willing to make a side trip to Knoxville, meet you halfway."

"And why would he be so obliging?" Raylan asked suspiciously.

"You have his nephew in the trunk."

Raylan made an 'o' with his mouth then grinned. "Now that's funny."

"Mm-hmm," agreed Ellstin. "We should put our Tennessee guests somewhere a little more comfortable. If it's all right with you, I'll have my boys see to that."

Raylan and Tim passed over the keys and watched as four men came out of the darkness at a signal from Limehouse. He gave them instructions and turned back to the Marshals.

"It's late, or perhaps I should say early. Would either of you gentlemen care for a bit of sleep before your drive south?"

"Yes, please," Tim replied, jumping at the offer.

Raylan turned to him in surprise. Sleeping in the enemy's den didn't seem the kind of imprudent action Tim would take. Yet a good look and it was clear he needed it. Raylan wondered how many nights Tim had spent sitting in a car watching Loretta.

Limehouse led Tim inside and came back out shortly after with a bottle of whiskey and two glasses. He motioned to the chairs on the porch and he and Raylan settled in. They passed the last dark hours of morning discussing the recent dead: Mags, Bo, Bowden, Doyle, Coover, Walt McCready, and finally Helen and then Frances Givens. Raylan stopped it there and pried stories of Noble's Holler from Limehouse until the sun came up, learned a thing or two more of its history and considered the time well-spent.

Tim appeared on the porch along with the first of the sunlight, yawning and disheveled.

"I could eat that tree," he said.

Limehouse laughed, got up and went inside to start up his stove. An hour later they had eaten enough bacon and pancakes even for Tim. They packed the trunks, packed their weapons and headed south into Tennessee.

* * *

The road was dry, unpaved, and the car kicked up dust as they sped along to the location Limehouse had given them. Rodney had found an abandoned and remote farm house, or maybe he owned it, or maybe whoever owned it owed Dunham's gang. Anyway you wanted to look at it, it was a perfect spot to ambush and execute a couple of lawmen and Raylan was glad he and Tim had taken precautions.

Tim had suggested signing out the rifle from work, even if it meant tipping off Art. Raylan dropped him at the end of the long drive to the house and proceeded alone to meet the Tennessee boys. Tim climbed a tree, wedged himself between two branches using another to steady his rifle, and started counting targets: two on the porch, one in an upstairs window, Rodney out front with two more of his men armed with shotguns.

Raylan pulled up and waited till the dust settled, wanting to eye the situation before getting out. He did a quick count himself, reached over and picked up his shotgun then unfolded himself from the car. He settled his hat down more firmly to keep the sun out of his eyes, chambered a round for effect and sauntered up to Rodney.

"Morning," he said casually. "Charming spot, Mr. Dunham. I feel as if I've stepped back in time."

"You've got nerve, coming down here alone," Dunham retorted.

Raylan smiled, feral, confident. "Who says I'm alone?" He pointed back down the driveway with the muzzle of his shotgun, glad for the dust covering their movements earlier. "I brought someone with me."

Rodney looked around comically, both arms straight out, palms up, waiting to be introduced to the Marshal's invisible friend. "Where? I don't see him."

"Oh, he's there," Raylan assured him. "He's in the tree line by the road."

Rodney squinted, searching, saw nothing and commented, "That's quite a distance he has to cover to get here to help you."

"Distance is his specialty." Raylan tapped his ear, indicating he and his invisible friend were in communication. "Tim? If you please."

Tim fired, dotting the 'i' on the NO TRESPASSING sign on the gate near the walkway to the house. Everyone jumped but Raylan. Rodney's head whipped around at the sound of the round hitting metal and he stared.

Raylan let Rodney chew on that a minute then added, "They call them 'force multipliers.' That's the military term for a sniper. The fear does more damage than any bullet. He's got another in the chamber already. He's fast. He was explaining to me the tricks of quick aiming for multiple targets that he picked up in Iraq. Though of course the next shot he fires is going right between your eyes. Now if we're through with the posturing I'd like to work out the details of our exchange so I can be back in Lexington in time for my afternoon tea."

Rodney's smugness landed with a thud at his feet and his eyes darted side to side, scanning the distance, unsettled. "Okay," he said, anxious to get this over with. "Where're the boys?"

"I have two right here in the trunk and two more, including your nephew, squirreled away somewhere not too far." Rodney looked like he wanted to protest, but Raylan raised his free hand to stop him. "Uh, hold on, first, I need your men around the house to get in their cars and leave."

"You'd have me stay here alone with you?"

Raylan raised his eyebrows and nodded. "I'm not here to shoot you, Mr. Dunham. I just want to talk." He pointed to one of the men closest. "He can stay if it'd make you feel better."

Rodney considered the proposal a moment, took another look toward the tree line then barked out orders to his men. They didn't look too pleased with the arrangement but complied. Raylan held up a finger, indicating they should wait, and exaggerated the motion of listening on his ear piece.

"My friend says not to forget your man in the front right bedroom upstairs. He's got him lined up in his scope right now."

Rodney puffed a bit then signaled to the window. No one spoke while the last man came out and joined them. Ten minutes later, the cars were out of sight. Raylan waved to Tim, walked around and opened the trunk. Rodney motioned to his remaining gun thug to help the captives out.

"The other two are in the trunk of their Nova. I'll give you the location where we parked them so you can get there before they succumb to the heat."

There was movement on the driveway and Rodney peered over Raylan's shoulder. Raylan turned to look and they watched Tim marching toward them, rifle over his shoulder. When he got within fifty yards he pulled his Glock out of his holster, all business.

Raylan's mouth twitched in a smile of appreciation for the display. He spoke up again, "My terms are quite simple. Leave Loretta McCready, and any money you think she has, alone. If anything happens to her or even close to her and I trace it back to you or any of your men, I'm going to get a transfer down to Memphis just so I can make your life a living hell. Do you understand me?"

Rodney nodded.

"Okay, then. Tim," Raylan moved toward him holding out his hand.

"Wait a minute. I need a name," Tim reminded Raylan, pushing his arm away. He stopped in front of Dunham. "Who did you hire to hit Dickie Bennett in the prison?"

"And who the hell are you, other than a guy with a rifle?" Rodney demanded, annoyed at losing control of the situation and looking for a dog to kick.

"I'm just that, a guy with a rifle. You can ask anybody," Tim stated waving his hand back at Raylan.

Raylan shrugged and nodded.

"We've made our deal," Rodney snarled, looking from Tim to Raylan and back.

"Not with me, you haven't. You made a deal with Raylan," Tim explained. "I still need a name."

"I agreed to leave the McCready girl alone. I think I've given you plenty."

"You've given _me_ nothing. Loretta's Raylan's problem," Tim pointed out.

"You got nothing to trade."

"Sure I do. That fellow you hired to kill Dickie? I'm way better with my rifle than he was with his and you've got another nephew in that prison. How hard do you think it'd be for me to pull the same stunt? Only I don't miss."

"Are you threatening me?" Rodney pulled himself up tall in front of Tim.

"No, I'm threatening your kin. Are you not listening?"

"You wouldn't dare!" Rodney was beginning to falter. He looked at Raylan. "Is he serious?"

Raylan shrugged. "I couldn't say for sure. I've been trying to figure that out since I first met him. But he's not lying about the skills."

Dunham ran a hand over his beard, considering his options. He decided none of this was worth his time or the risk. "First off, I didn't hire anyone to kill Dickie Bennett."

Tim looked at him, cocked his head. "'Course not. But if you wanted to, who would you call?"

"I'd call this guy. He's nothing to me," he conceded to save face. "I don't care what happens to him so long as it doesn't come back on me. But I can't give you his name 'cause I don't know it. What I can do is tell you how to get in touch with him."

"That's good enough for me," Tim agreed.

Rodney gave Tim the information and Tim handed over a slip of paper with the location of the Nova and the car keys. Rodney stood there looking perplexed, wondering what the hell just happened.

"Anything else, Rodney?" Raylan asked. "You look like you've got something on your mind."

"Just so I get this right, Marshal, are you warning me off Dickie Bennett?"

"Hell no," Raylan replied emphatically, "I'd be obliged if you'd find a way to put him out of his and my misery. Just do me a favor and make it look like an accident so I don't have to arrest anyone for it when I'd rather be patting them on the back."

* * *

Raylan pulled onto the road at the end of the driveway and looked over at Tim. "What the hell was that? Not the Tim Gutterson I know."

"That was me playing Raylan Givens," Tim responded blandly. "Not my best acting. Don't worry, it's not likely to happen again."

"What are you going to do with the information he gave you?"

Tim reached down and pulled a twig out of the laces on his boot, rolled down the window and tossed it out.

"Is this guy, Tom Yoder, a friend?" Raylan didn't expect a response, so he didn't wait for one. "What'll you do, Tim, if it's him?"

"Well, we all know what you'd do," Tim commented dryly.

"He's murdering people. For money."

"It'd be okay if he did it for free? Like you?" Tim shook his head. "He's murdering scumbags, Raylan. You should read the list."

"So he's Robin Hood. Is that what you're telling me?"

"I ain't crying for any one of them."

* * *

 


	14. Chapter 14

* * *

His wife's body was found in the trunk of her car, beaten then shot in the head. He had been a police officer for ten years, a youth worker in a high school, had previous charges of sexual assault, and now was on the Federal Top 15 Most Wanted list. The Marshals Fugitive Task Force had been unlucky when they cornered him in Atlanta; he had escaped and taken a hostage. SOG was brought in. It was the last day of Tim's team's rotation at the top of the call list and he was lying prone peering through a scope between the rails of a balcony to the store front where the man was holed up.

"This is team leader. Does anyone have a clear shot?"

There were three marksmen on the team but only Tim answered in the affirmative. He was on the right side for a straight trajectory past the hostage.

"You have the green light, Gutterson. Take the shot."

He hardly had to think, a jarring in his shoulder from the recoil and it was over. The ground team swarmed in and the hostage was rushed out to a waiting ambulance and met by Victims Services. Tim picked up his rifle and headed down to the street.

The local police securing the scene mixed in with the SOG team and the other Marshals afterward, congratulations were extended, the event rehashed, stories swapped. Tim always hated the ritual. It was a slow-motion play-by-play of a necessary shooting that he'd really rather just live through once. He understood their need to talk about it. His needs were different. He wanted to be alone.

"Hey kid," one of the locals hailed the sniper of the day.

Tim took off his cap and scratched his head. He put it back on again, not bothering to smooth his hair out first and turned to greet the salesman of camaraderie.

"Nice shot. But by God, I hate the brain matter splatter. Dirt bag had it coming though, huh, after what he did to his wife?"

Tim nodded and looked around for an escape route.

"Where did you get your training?"

"Military."

The man wasn't deterred by one word answers. He nodded. "Iraq," he presumed.

"Afghanistan," Tim corrected. He never talked about Iraq.

"You weren't in Georgia yesterday, by any chance?" the cop asked, a mischievous twitch of the eyebrow accompanying the question.

Tim looked at him, said, "No, Tennessee," and waited for the punch line.

"Craziest thing. We had a two-bit pusher put down with a sniper bullet. Seemed a waste of such elegant ammo," he laughed and was surprised when he only heard himself. He shrugged.

Tim stared.

"That wasn't your first, was it?" the cop asked, suddenly concerned.

"Uh-uh. Tell me about the shooting," Tim prodded.

The policeman was happy to oblige and soon had a small audience. He explained that rival drug gangs had been escalating a turf war until the leader on one side was taken down walking out of his apartment by a 400 yard shot. He was a small-time dealer so the unusual and high-profile manner of his death made an impression with the local police and they were all talking about it, interested in Tim's opinion.

Tim wondered at the irony of it, tried to come up with a difference between his shot and the earlier one, a difference other than the okay through the earpiece. The results were the same; one less scumbag.

From the little details he gathered, he concluded it a likely fit to the pattern of the sniper the Feds were investigating. But with the victim a low-life drug dealer, Tim figured Tom Yoder was selling his talents pretty cheaply. That realization only served to strengthen his suspicions. Yoder was in it for the thrill, recreating the mad minute. War is a drug, anyone who was there could tell you that, and Tom was getting his fix.

He reminded himself that it was still just his suspicions. As soon as he got back to Lexington he'd make use of Rodney's information and try to contact the shooter, decide what to do after that.

Tim was glad to get to the motel. Alone, he had time to think, try to find flaws in his theory. Instead his mind kept going back.

His first deployment to Afghanistan, Tim had been assigned to a sniper team led by Sgt. Yoder, flown in at the last minute from Iraq when the Sergeant who was supposed to take charge was sent home on compassionate leave. Yoder was like a god to the young privates, an experienced NCO, confident, keeping them safe outside the wire.

One incident in particular he revisited often, an ambush in an abandoned village. They were pinned down within the perimeter, unable to get their snipers to a firing position. Yoder kept them moving, wary of providing a stationary target for an Afghani sniper or mortar fire. After an hour they had two wounded by lucky bullets, unlucky for the Rangers, and one of the team froze, refusing to break cover again. Tim wouldn't leave him, cajoling, pulling on his arm, yelling. Yoder ran back and talked calmly, like he was settling a horse, eventually getting the kid to stand and he and Tim half-dragged him forward to join the rest of the team.

Yoder didn't report it. He kept the kid on, encouraging him through the next two patrols until he found his legs, became a soldier and never balked again. It was a lesson in leadership Tim would never forget. Yoder wasn't with them long and Tim heard through the battalion grapevine that he'd been sent back to Iraq as soon as the other Sergeant returned to duty. He saw him again briefly at Fort Benning, Georgia and then one last time in Iraq.

By then they held the same rank. Sgt. Yoder's military career had stalled and it was rumored that he was taking greater and greater risks with his teams, increasingly and indiscriminately more aggressive. Tim found himself standing outside a vehicle at Joint-Base Balad in northern Iraq, geared up for battle and shaking hands with his former Sergeant. He had heard the stories but was still glad to be running this operation in tandem with Yoder's team. The man had experience on the ground here and you couldn't buy that.

Yoder gave him confidence on this new battlefield. He talked him casually through a day in the life while they waited for the go ahead and Gutterson hung on every word. If he hadn't been so occupied trying to cover his own nervousness maybe he would have noticed the wild look, the symptoms of a problem that got Yoder shipped home a year later with a dishonorable discharge.

* * *

Art had turned Tim around and shooed him back out of the office with instructions to report to his SOG team in Atlanta as soon as he and Raylan had reappeared after their escapade in Tennessee. So Tim was at the airport while Raylan had explained their absence to the Chief. He had no idea what transpired during that conversation and was a little wary of the reception he would get when he walked to his desk two days later.

His butt hadn't touched his chair when Art called, "Tim."

Tim walked right into Art's office, shut the door and sat down without being asked.

"Well, that's about as strong an admission of guilt as I've ever seen," Art remarked. "What would you like to confess, my son?"

Art waited while Tim hung his head and studied his hands and was rewarded for his patience by a sentence.

"I don't know what to do."

It was evidently not a statement of boredom, there was too much of the world-weary and discouraged in it.

"About Tom Yoder?" Art supplied after a reasonable pause.

Tim's head shot up angrily.

"Yes, Raylan told me," said Art. "But before you get all huffy, understand that you should have come to me about this earlier. You're a talented investigator, Tim, and your analysis of evidence carries weight with me, like Raylan's neck hairs and Rachel's eyebrows."

He paused for a chuckle and was disappointed, but it was a good indicator of the level of disquiet in his young Marshal. Art frowned and carried on. "Now I know it's only suspicions but you would've been knocking me on the head for permission to chase it if was another case. You know this guy from the Rangers?"

Tim nodded.

"Uh-huh. Well, tell me what exactly you know."

Tim explained in more detail what he'd already related to Raylan then added, "I sent a message last night. I'm just waiting to hear back now."

Art leaned an elbow on his desk and sunk his chin on his hand. He sighed. "It's a tough call. You'll run up against these difficult choices all the time in law enforcement. Letter of the law versus spirit of the law. They're supposed to be the same thing but it's amazing how often they're not. You're a sworn-in US Marshal _and_ a human being. It's hard to be both at once yet they expect it of us every day."

Art shuffled some papers around while he thought about the problem. He gave Tim a piercing look. "I'd probably be angrier if the Feds hadn't come down so hard on you from the start. They can be wrong with such enthusiasm."

Tim studied Art's expression, seeing compassion, understanding and the hard truth that he really had no choice in this.

"But it's in my face now," Art continued, "and we have to follow through on it. Letter of the law, son. I don't care if he's shooting scumbags." He sat up and pointed an authoritative finger. "I want you to write up a report, your conclusions based on your investigation into these shootings, and include your present actions trying to contact this fellow. We'll let the Feds and CID handle it from here. I don't want you taking the fall for any of this because of some misguided loyalty. You're a Marshal now, not a Ranger. Are we clear?"

"Yessir," Tim said, dull and dutiful.

Art eyed him thoughtfully. "Did this Yoder save your life or something heroic like that?"

Tim looked up, battle-weary, and replied, "That'd be about right."

* * *

Everyone took a wide circle to get to the copier that morning and into the afternoon. The dark cloud hanging over Tim's desk was evident to all. He finished up the report, hammering each key stroke, building the gallows. When he was done he went back through it and deliberately took out any emotive language, dropped a copy on Art's desk and went out for a late lunch.

Miljana walked into the bar around 4pm and sat across from him. The waitress came by and she ordered a drink and a sandwich, took another look at Tim and held up her hand indicating two sandwiches. The waitress was about to ask Tim if he'd like another drink, but Miljana caught her eye and shook her head, no.

When the food appeared, Tim dolefully eyed the glass of water that the waitress brought with it and glared across the table. Miljana grinned, no remorse.

"If you eat all your sandwich, you can have dessert," she teased.

He chugged back the water, smacked his lips then dug into his lunch. "I didn't think you got my message," he said.

"Back-to-back appointments, almost all day," she moaned. "I was surprised to find you still here. Skipping classes?"

He smiled, but not convincingly. "How were your clients?"

"You know I can't talk about my clients, Mr. Redirect. How was _your_ day?"

He shrugged.

"If you don't tell me what's bothering you, there'll be no sex tonight," she threatened.

He covered his face with his hands and for a moment she thought she'd upset him. She reached over and pulled at his fingers. He was laughing. He wiped at his eyes then signaled the waitress for another beer. She didn't think it was that funny, her line, more likely he was that close to breaking down.

He shook his head and joked back. "I can't believe they let you practice. They really should take away your license."

_Strings of sarcasm_ , she thought smiling at him fondly. He read through the look that his cover was blown and started talking.

* * *

 


	15. Chapter 15

* * *

Tim stopped at an internet café on the way to work the next morning, bought a coffee and sat at a computer. He left a message on four different veterans' sites with enough clues embedded in it that if the right person read it, they'd recognize him and hopefully call.

The Feds brought his computer back that same morning. It and they were waiting for him when he arrived at work. Art was hanging around Rachel's desk, chatting and watching the door. He blocked Tim's way into the office, steered him back down the hall and escorted him onto the elevator and downstairs before the visitors caught sight of him.

"Where are we going?" Tim asked as they headed out the doors of the courthouse and down the sidewalk. Tim decided it was time he found out, either that or start yelling 'stranger danger' in hopes someone would rescue him from the crazed man with a solid grip on his arm.

"I need a coffee," Art replied evasively.

"I recall seeing a coffee pot on the counter behind Deputy Garcia's desk once when I was in the office. At least I'm pretty sure that's what it was, glass thing with a handle, dark liquid in it, steaming."

Art made a face. "Nah, I want one of those foamy coffees with all the sugar and shit on it."

"Yeah, I totally had you pegged as a latte guy," Tim responded sarcastically.

"Hey, you know some French. Should have put that on your resumé."

"Hey, you know some French, too."

"Here's some more for you: you're a sarcastic little shit."

"Am I in trouble again…still…again…whatever?" Tim finally asked.

"Try 'yet'. I'm hoping to stop you from doing something stupid. I'm the eternal optimist." He held the door of the coffee shop open.

"I'm sorry, but who's the sarcastic little shit?" Tim said under his breath as he walked past.

"What did you say?"

"Just practicing my French."

"Uh-huh." Art scowled at him then switched it up to a smile. "You want a coffee? I'm buying."

Tim turned to the young man behind the counter. "I'll take the strongest brew you got, no foam, no sugar. Just coffee."

"Same," Art added, pulling out his wallet.

Tim smirked, grabbed the coffees and found a table.

Art followed him and started the talk, no preamble. "The Feds are back."

"I noticed."

"Tim," Art said, serious, "we're worried you're going to end up on the wrong side of this."

"We?"

"Me and Raylan."

"You I get, but Raylan?" Tim huffed. "He's been tailing me, Chief. He thought I was _already_ on the wrong side of this thing."

"I know. He wasn't alone. The Feds thought so, too. And he thought tailing you was the right thing to do."

"Of course he thought it was the right thing to do. Raylan always thinks whatever Raylan does is the right thing to do." Tim started to fidget. "And I'm sure he can justify it, just like I can justify whatever I do, especially if you only look at intentions. But sometimes all the good intentions in the world can't make up for the deed."

"What? The end doesn't justify the means?"

"No, the opposite. Sometimes the means don't justify the end."

Art repeated the mixed-up phrase to himself a few times, trying to sort it out. "The road to hell is paved with good intentions," Art summarized, a bit confused. "Is that what you're saying?"

"Not really, but I'm sure that'll probably apply, too, before this is over. And I'm definitely going to hell," Tim concluded in defeat. He looked up at Art and shook his head. "Do you suppose Raylan ever thinks about the motivation behind his good intentions?"

Art scratched his head, convinced that there must be some civilized rule against getting philosophical before a certain time of the day, like not drinking before 5pm. He decided he was probably going to hell, too, if he looked at things the way Tim was looking at them. He also decided to find Tim another girlfriend. He could hear her influence or more likely she just encouraged what was already there. He liked it better when Tim discussed guns. He took a sip of his coffee and focused on what he needed to know right now.

"Well, I can't say I've thought much about that. At this point, I'm thinking about what I need from you. And what I need is for you to tell me that whatever your intentions are, they sound right to me as Chief Deputy."

"Honestly, my only _intention_ is to get myself as far away from this as possible. There is no _right_ thing to do in this case," Tim said angrily. "I'm doing the wrong thing no matter what. It just depends what you're judging me by."

Art's _intentions_ this morning were to make Tim doubt himself and he was prepared to spend all day at it if necessary. Apparently it wasn't necessary; doubt was all there was. Art now had to try to think of something to say to work it the other direction, to give Tim the confidence to do what was necessary, but any argument that presented itself sounded rather hollow, even to him. He went with the truth.

"It sucks."

"Damn fucking straight," Tim replied emphatically.

"You swear too much," Art admonished.

"Really? I don't think I swear enough."

Art moved on. "They want you to be part of the investigating team," he stated, knowing it would be a body blow.

"They're not serious," Tim spluttered.

"Sorry, but you wrote a damn good report."

"Shit," Tim cursed and slumped back in his chair. "I suck at all the wrong things."

Art thought that profoundly true. "Tim, just do your job. Whoever this guy is, Yoder or whatever, he crossed the line. He's forced your hand. Don't beat yourself up over it. It's not like they're asking you to pull the trigger."

As soon as the words reached air Art wished he hadn't let them. Tim's face fell in a heap of misery and Art realized that he'd gotten to the heart of it. Tim was afraid they'd give him a rifle and make him shoot the man.

"Can't you get me out of this?" Tim pleaded.

"This has come down from way over my head, Tim. What possible reason could I give them?"

"I have a conflict," Tim stated, hoping that was obvious to everyone.

"Well, you're definitely conflicted, but he's not related to you and by your own admission you spent less than a week with him in combat. What am I supposed to tell them that won't be damaging to your career?"

"I'm supposed to care about my career?" Tim seethed.

"Well, if you don't care about your career as a US Marshal then I suggest we head back to the office right now, you can hand in your resignation and I'll escort you out."

Tim stared, speechless.

"You and I both know you're not going to quit," Art finally said, backing down. "Look, whenever I get conflicted _,_ I just go back to the job description and…"

"Oh, no," Tim interrupted angrily, "don't. That argument has been used often enough in history."

Art paused, conceded the point, "You're right."

Tim was still fidgeting. He hadn't touched his coffee. His eyes darted around the shop, out the window. Eventually he got quiet, physically, and looked back at Art. "I can promise you this. If I can, I'll get him to come in. But that's it. That's all I can do."

"Okay. I can live with that. I just don't want to find out you've been aiding a fugitive."

Tim shook his head, noticed his coffee and had some. "He's not thinking straight, Chief. He's not mentally stable. You know that, right?"

* * *

It was near the end of the day. Tim had his computer back, but they were still keeping the rifle, trying to track the original owner, a man that Tim was pretty sure didn't even exist except on paper. He had to laugh. It was the only thing he could find amusing at all.

His phone rang.

"Gutterson."

"Hey, Sgt. Gutterson. Hooah."

It was Yoder. "Fuck, what are you doing calling me now?"

"I saw you were looking for me. Got your cryptic message. That was pretty clever. Can we meet?"

"Yeah, sure. Where?"

"You'll be alone, right?"

"Do you know where I'm sitting right now?" said Tim.

"US Marshals Office, in Lexington probably, guessing by the phone number. I heard you were a LEO. You going to arrest me or did you want to talk?"

Tim shut his eyes, wet his lips. There was his confirmation. "I'll be alone. I want to talk."

"Alright then. Got a pen?"

Tim listened while Yoder gave him instructions, committing it all to memory. He was not writing anything down. He hung up and sat stunned, staring at the display on his phone until it timed out. He swallowed hard then swore under his breath, "Shit." The bottomless disappointment surprised him.

* * *

Meetings with criminals always take place in abandoned buildings, thought Tim. He pulled into the yard in front of an old farming shed off the Cincinnati Road near Sadieville, got out and looked around, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. He pulled his sidearm, cautious not nervous, approached the building and pushed open the door. He found himself staring down the muzzle of a Beretta.

"Is that a Glock?" a familiar voice said. "I heard the Marshals Service uses them. How do you like it?"

"It's good," Tim answered. "Never had any trouble with it and I can vouch for it wet, too."

"I'll bet it never gives you any trouble," Yoder commented. "There's probably never been a handgun so meticulously cared for. You were obsessive, even as a Private nothing."

"Yeah, that's me. You know I still keep a Beretta, as a backup."

The muzzle disappeared into the dark of the room and Tim lowered his weapon as well, put it back in its holster. Tom Yoder stepped out of the shadows and smiled, still holding his loosely.

"So this is what you look like without all the battle rattle," he said. "You're not so scary."

Tim grinned. "It's good to see you." He meant it.

"Yeah, you too. Your face was all black and blue last time I saw you. Man, that was a messy day. You get over it?" Yoder asked. "I heard you got out right after."

"Get over it physically or mentally?"

Yoder laughed. "Well, you're holding down a job, so I guess you're okay. Come on, sit down and have a beer. You weren't followed, were you?"

"No, I've been careful."

Tim sat on an old chair and looked Tom over. He looked healthy, good solid German stock, he just couldn't keep still. He handed Tim a beer and sat down across from him, then got up and got one for himself, sat down again and bounced up a moment later, checked the door, sat again, leg jumping. He lasted a moment or two then got up again and started pacing.

"Are you part of the investigation or did you just hear about it and guess right?" he asked curiously, peering at Tim in the dim light of a lantern.

"Actually, I was under investigation myself, on the same list as you," Tim explained.

"Seriously? A Federal Marshal?"

"Yep, that's how I saw the list, saw your name on it. They searched my house, pulled me in for questioning. Now they want my help tracking you," Tim confessed.

"So are you?" Tom questioned.

"They're not giving me much choice. But all I'm going to do tonight is try and talk you into coming back with me."

"Turn myself in?"

"Look, my girlfriend's a psychologist. She says you could plead mental incompetency, no problem." Tim read the look of disdain on Yoder's face and added, "Hell, she says _I_ could plead mental incompetency. I may have to if they find out I've talked to you."

"You got to do what you got to do. It's not on me."

"I know. I've had this discussion with just about everyone," Tim grumbled, "including myself. The little devil over this shoulder is telling me to shoot you in the face and call it in. The little angel over the other shoulder is screaming at me to not take the easy way out. The loser in the middle just wants to put his head in the sand."

"So?" Yoder demanded. "What's it going to be?"

"The little angel has my attention." Tim wanted to stand up and pace around, too, but he didn't want to spook Yoder. He stayed in his chair and willed himself to sit still. "They know it's you. It's only a matter of time before they catch up with you and shoot you. Just come in with me, get some help. I'm there, right? All the way."

"There's nothing wrong with me," Yoder insisted.

"Uh-huh. Everyone I know shoots people for kicks."

"What do you know about it?"

"I know a _fucking_ lot about it. What, you think I don't still get a thrill?"

Yoder raised his weapon. "Time to go, Gutterson. I appreciate you trying, though. Honestly."

Tim knew Yoder wouldn't shoot unless he forced him to. But he knew he wouldn't shoot, period. He got up and walked to the door. He didn't remember much about the drive home.

* * *

 


	16. Chapter 16

* * *

The fist came out of nowhere, caught him off-guard and off-balance. Raylan went down and Tim was moving again, on him in a blur. But everyone else was moving too. Art had started out of his office when the yelling reached him. He had hold of Tim before he could throw a second punch, pulled him up and called for Rachel to collect Tim's wallet and keys from his desk. He muscled him out the double doors to the elevator, made sure he got on it.

"Go home," Art commanded furiously. "I'll speak with you later."

Something in the look on Tim's face as the doors closed made Art hesitate. He stood looking at the elevator, calming down, then turned and walked slowly back into the bullpen, replaying the scene in his head. There was more to this. There was a level above the obvious that Art hadn't reached yet, but by God, no one was going to keep him from getting to it.

The silence when he pushed through the doors was more ice on his anger and he stood a moment considering his next move.

"Raylan," he snapped and pointed to his office.

Raylan followed him, rubbing his chin. Art sat at his desk and looked at him, still digesting what he saw and what he thought he saw.

"What the hell just happened?" Art demanded after Raylan had closed the door.

"I don't know." Raylan sat down looking perplexed.

"Well, what did you say to piss him off?"

Raylan puffed out a breath and looked at the ceiling. "Well, it wouldn't have taken much. He's been surly since he started working with the Feds this week. Not that I blame him," Raylan added. "I just asked how the investigation was going. He suggested I go ask his girlfriend. I asked him why I'd do that when he's sitting right there. And he got up and walked over to my desk and told me to come to him from now on if I had any questions and to stay away from her. I told him I'd never fool around with his girl and he said he knew that, that he trusted _her_. I took offense to the implication and stood up and asked him what his problem was. It went on from there." Raylan rolled his hand absently, still wondering.

"Wait a minute. You went and talked to Miljana?" Art narrowed his eyes at him. "Why?"

"I wanted to clarify something about Tim and his military career."

"What, exactly?"

"Something he'd said to Tom Yoder's wife, about serving in Iraq."

"Jesus, Raylan," Art growled. "You're like the kid with the stunned look who just got bit by the dog and can't understand why when all you've been doing is _poking it with a stick._ I can't believe you went and talked to his girlfriend behind his back!"

"Art, I was concerned."

"Suspicious, you mean."

"That, too."

"Well, shit. I understand the suspicion, but you crossed a line." Art yanked at his desk drawer and pulled out a file. He flipped it open and slapped two forms on the desk facing Raylan. "This is a transfer request for Tim and this is one for you. I've got them all filled out, now I have to decide which one to sign and I'm leaning toward this one." He pointed at Raylan's. "Especially now that I'm going to have to put Tim on administrative leave and go through the motions of appropriate disciplinary action, which means no bureau will touch him except SOG and I'm not going to do that to him. That would be punishment way beyond what he deserves for punching you."

Raylan was still rubbing his chin.

"You need ice?" Art asked.

"No, honestly, it wasn't much of a punch. I expected more from the way he always talks."

Art thought about it. "You went down hard enough."

"I was off-balance," Raylan explained. "It was a lucky punch. I wasn't expecting it."

Art rubbed his head vigorously with one hand, running through the afternoon's drama. He remembered getting up from his desk to intervene when the yelling started, and yes, there it was, a quick look from Tim, gauging, before he struck. He focused his concentration on Tim's expression, what it revealed. He commented thoughtfully, "Lucky or planned? Raylan, I've seen Tim almost beat someone to death, a man bigger than you."

The two of them looked at each other a moment. "What's going on?" Art asked. "Are we being played?"

"Art, that's not Tim's style. He's just under some stress," said Raylan dismissing the idea, but there was doubt.

"He's been backed into a corner with this whole Tom Yoder mess. A suspension would get him off the hook. What would you do to get out of it?"

"I wouldn't. If the guy's guilty, he's guilty. Hell, I had to bring Arlo in. I don't get what Tim's problem is."

"I know you don't."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Raylan demanded.

"Nothing, just that you see things differently. You're not Tim." And this Tom Yoder is not Arlo, thought Art, not sure he could articulate the difference in any way that would satisfy himself or Raylan and certainly not a court of law. "Tim's got his reasons and I understand why he'd try to uninvolve himself."

Raylan did not look convinced. "His method of uninvolving himself seems a bit extreme."

"You think so? Funny, hitting you doesn't seem so extreme to me," Art commented getting up.

"Where are you going?"

"To talk to him," Art replied. "See if I'm right."

"I'm coming, too," said Raylan, standing.

"No, you're not."

"Then I'll go myself later."

"Fine Raylan, you're a big boy. Do what you want. But if he shoots at you, you're on your own. There is no way I'm getting into a gun fight with Tim."

Art picked up his sunglasses and his keys and headed for the door. Before he opened it, he turned and added, "You know, you're both good enough with a handgun, there's hope maybe this problem will sort itself out." Art forced his mouth up into a smile for Raylan then walked out.

* * *

The door hit the wall with enough force to draw the attention of the security guard at the main entrance. He pursed his lips in disapproval, glaring at Tim's back as he stormed out and down the stairs. Tim didn't slow his pace until he reached the corner and turned, out of sight of the courthouse. He stopped then, took a deep breath and dug in his pocket for his sunglasses.

The mid afternoon heat shimmered and glared white off the sidewalk and the surrounding buildings. Tim blinked once or twice, standing in the full sun letting the warmth relax tense muscles, then jogged across the street into the shade and made his way home. He stopped at the same internet café he'd used to contact Yoder originally and posted another series of messages, his second set today, the same plea he'd sent out three times a day since his meeting with the former Ranger. He didn't expect a response, but he couldn't accept not trying.

He bought a cold drink before he walked back out into the heat, sipped it slowly, shuffling his feet, dragging the time out until he got home. He knew Art would be waiting.

Whether or not Art saw through his game, the conversation was not going to go well for him. He ran through the possibilities from bad to worse: administrative leave, a two-week suspension without pay, an undesired transfer or reassignment full-time to the Special Operations Group. The only thing worse than the last would be Art punishing him by doing nothing. And if it came to that, he'd consider quitting.

He and Miljana had talked through the scenarios. She agreed that her job was portable if he had to move, or she could support him while he finished a degree and looked for other work. She was prepared to do anything after watching him slide backward the last couple of weeks, withdrawn, out of reach even for her, less laughter and more drinking. She was worried. The nightmares were back. He was back almost to square one, back further even to that fateful day in Iraq. Nothing was worth it.

She gave him the match to light the fuse and prayed for a controlled explosion.

* * *

Art was waiting on the porch, looking serious, the executioner. Tim imagined that maybe this was how Thomas More felt, refusing to reframe his beliefs, right or not, placing himself on the wrong side of the power of the law and climbing the stairs at last to meet the axeman.

Tim's executioner stood leisurely and walked over, leaning against the post. Mercy or no? Tim wondered briefly what, if anything, the man with the axe might have said to Thomas More.

"Got any cold beer in the fridge?" Art crossed his arms and looked squarely at him. "It's hotter than hell out here."

If this is hotter than hell, thought Tim, maybe hell won't be so bad after all.

"Always," he answered, still unsure if the axe would fall. He unlocked the door and led Art inside.

Art accepted the beer and took a good long first draw, smiling appreciatively. Tim sat staring at his.

"Well, congratulations," Art began, "you've found an interesting solution to your dilemma of conscience. But it comes with a price tag. Are you willing to pay it?"

Tim grimaced then nodded. "I've thought it through. You got any other ideas?"

"Mud wrestling."

Tim looked up, wondering if he'd heard right.

"I'm thinking maybe I'll take early retirement and open up one of those bars that does naked mud wrestling," Art explained. "Less stress."

He drank through the last of his beer and Tim got up and opened him another.

"You're going to have to surrender your weapon and your star while you're on administrative leave," Art stated. "You'll likely get a two-week suspension as disciplinary action _if_ Raylan agrees to crank up the drama for you. I think he will if you explain it to him. And no, I won't ask you to apologize. The two of you deserve each other. Work it out however you want – outside the office!"

The last sentence came out forcefully, a blast of exasperation.

"Of course this goes on your employment record, but I suspect if that was a concern to you, you wouldn't have started down this road. Now, if I stretch out the proceedings, slow up the paperwork, we could keep you officially off-duty for three weeks, maybe more. Would that suit you?"

Tim nodded, unconsciously rubbing his neck in relief. It would do for now.

* * *

 


	17. Chapter 17

* * *

Tim pushed open the screen door and the two men stood silently, appraising.

"I think I owe you a bitch slap," Raylan said finally, no acrimony, just sarcasm.

Tim glanced down at his feet, grinning lop-sided. He looked up again and indicated with a tilt of his head for Raylan to follow him. Turning, he walked to the kitchen talking over his shoulder.

"Well, I didn't want to knock any teeth out," he explained. "Just make a show. I hope you appreciate the nuancing that went into that punch. I had to hold off until you had your weight back on your heels so all you really needed was a push. And slowing it down mid-swing, that's hard. I think I pulled a muscle in my shoulder." He rolled his right arm to demonstrate.

By the end of Tim's matter-of-fact rendition of events Raylan was grinning, too. He shook his head. "It was well-executed, I'll give you that. Probably won't even bruise. But next time, pick on somebody else."

"I'm not hitting Rachel. I like her." Tim opened two bottles of beer and passed one to Raylan. "And there's no one else in that office I could pick a fight with and make it believable. I had to give Art _something_ to work with. Besides, you're the one who tipped him off which got me into this whole business with the Feds, I figure you owed it to me to help get me out."

Raylan dropped the edges of his mouth down, thinking about the reasoning in Tim's statement. "I can see your point," he concluded. "But that doesn't change the fact you're an idiot."

"And you're an asshole."

They clinked bottles and went back out to the porch.

"Your girl squealed on me," Raylan accused, sitting down and propping his feet up on the railing.

"Aw, now, don't be too hard on her. She feels bad enough about it as is. I needed a good reason to get mad at you. You being an asshole just wasn't specific enough."

"I haven't decided yet if I like your girl or not," Raylan mused. "No offense."

"None taken," Tim replied affably. "She feels the same way about you."

Raylan was pleased by the symmetry and said so.

"Did it go okay with Art?" he inquired. "I can never tell if he's really angry or just putting on a show for our benefit."

"I got the distinct impression he was more angry about you and me bickering than anything," Tim replied. "That's the only time he started shouting."

"He likes cooperation and harmony among his troops."

"You just wait. You'll be just like him when the baby grows up a little."

Raylan screwed up his face and shot Tim a disgruntled look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Tim ignored him and kept talking. "He wants to take away all my fun. The highlight of my work day is needling you."

"And what did I do to deserve that kind of attention?"

"Really, you have to ask?" Tim was astonished, shook his head then picked up the previous conversation. "Anyway, I knew he'd see right through it. He always does. Shit, I can't put anything past him. He said this could get me in enough trouble to keep me out of the office for a bit, hopefully long enough to see this thing with Yoder done, one way or another." His voice had lost its playfulness. He looked sideways at Raylan. "If you help out and play it up."

The last phrase was a request. Raylan's first inclination was to balk, unwilling to betray his sense of justice. "And why should I? You haven't given me a good enough reason to sideline a murder investigation."

"Sideline the investigation?" Tim laughed humorlessly. "You're kidding me, right? Raylan, I've streamlined it for them. I all but handed Yoder over in a package. It's just a manhunt now. And I don't trust myself to do what I'm paid to do if I'm there when they corner him." Clearly frustrated, Tim stood up and jammed his hands in his pockets, staring out at the street. "I've made it clear to everybody that I can't do this. I don't get why I have to resort to this shit to make myself heard, but I'll take it further if I have to."

"Hey," Raylan responded, holding up his hands in surrender, "it won't come to that. I'll back your play, but only if you get me another beer."

"Fuck," Tim cursed, calming down. "You and Art don't come cheap."

He went inside for the bribe, bringing out two more bottles and settling back in his chair. The relief at his reprieve, however temporary, was enormous.

* * *

Miljana was held up with a client in a personal crisis all afternoon, he'd just found out his wife was having an affair. It took her well past his allotted appointment time to get him to face his new reality and make a decision about his next move. She was desperate to talk to Tim, almost screaming out in frustration when she walked her client to the door, all grace, smiling reassurance. She scrambled back to her office to check her messages. There was a text, two words: _At home._

He could be so obtuse.

She decided not to waste time calling and drove straight to the house. The six empty bottles on the porch rail stopped her short at the gate. She followed the trail: four in the living room, five more on the counter in the kitchen along with a half empty bottle of bourbon. Expecting the worst, she kept searching for a body.

The backyard was shaded that time of day, a comfortable place to sit, and she peeked out the door. Raylan was melting into one of the two decent wooden chairs in the shade, sipping whiskey. Tim was pooled comfortably on the grass, hands behind his head, ankles crossed, an empty glass tucked against his hip. From the snippets of conversation she heard from her perch on the step, she was amazed to discover they were discussing the batting line-up for the Cincinnati Reds.

The two men turned to look at her, their drunken expressions shifting not too subtly into an attempt at guilt.

The laugh broke out of her, releasing her tension but foiling any chance she had for framing a serious reprimand. She settled for collusion. "Todd Frazier's a good batter," she interjected, "but he's not fast enough to be a lead-off hitter. You two must be either drunk or stupid."

"Drunk," Raylan confirmed, lazily raising a finger.

"And stupid," Tim added, hardly bothering even to move his lips. "Just ask Art."

"Yeah, he'd back us on this," Raylan concurred.

Miljana agreed with their assessment. "Art is really quite clever. Light the barbecue if you can stand. I've got steaks in the fridge. I'm going to change and then we'll get some food into you."

She paused a moment, listening while they carried on couch coaching, neither of them attempting to get up. It was like a summer storm had broken over Lexington and left things a little cooler for a while, emotionally anyway. The outside temperature was still hot. There were a couple of cold beers left in the fridge and she opened one for herself on the way upstairs.

The boys were marginally coherent after dinner and better company. She slowly peeled through the day's events, uncovering one layer at a time. It was painstaking work and if the two men hadn't been so drunk and amusing, she might have given in to frustration and called Art for a play-by-play.

"So you did hit him?" She grimaced and turned to Raylan. "Are you okay?"

He waved a hand. "It was a girly punch."

"I resent that," she said, balling up her fist. "Allow me the opportunity to adjust your opinion of my sex."

"She'll do it," Tim warned, grinning at her. He looked over at Raylan and cocked his head. "I'm trying to be sorry I hit you but I just can't get there. I'm still pissed at you for talking to Yoder's wife."

"Well, you'll just have to get over it," Raylan stated, equally unrepentant.

Tim looked like he already was. "Like I said, I didn't want to deck you." He paused. "At least not that time, maybe once or twice last week. Anyway, we wouldn't want to mess up that pretty face."

Miljana grinned at Raylan. "You see, I knew there was a boy who would find you pretty."

"Sorry, Tim. You're not my type," Raylan quipped.

Tim gave him the puppy eyes and pouted.

Miljana watched the exchange. "Have you two considered couple's counseling?"

* * *

Art was conscientious about the paperwork and gave Tim the maximum he could for his transgression, keeping to his word and keeping Tim out of the investigation as long as possible. Yoder, however, was proving illusive and the manhunt dragged on. He was well trained.

It was a little over a week into his suspension after a full week of administrative leave and Tim was starting to get antsy. Miljana and Tim's firearms were enjoying the benefits of his boredom, dinner was waiting for her every night and his collection of weapons was particularly sparkly.

Tim circled back toward the courthouse at the end of his run, returning to the internet café to post his daily messages for Yoder. It was part of his routine and he couldn't stop trying, though each message sent, each day that passed marked a slide back in his mood. He was becoming withdrawn again. He decided after talking about it endlessly with Miljana that he was afraid, afraid that he'd end up like Yoder. She said his fears were groundless but understandable. He still had doubts. She said his doubts were what made her confident. He tried to look at it logically, but logic led nowhere. And when he couldn't think about it anymore he got busy.

He was grateful when Raylan showed up at his door late in the afternoon on one of the last days of his suspension with something to distract him.

"Hey Tim, I need your help," he said. "Loretta's case worker called. She hasn't been seen in a week. They were hoping I might know where to look." It was clear by the expression on his face that his idea was to hope Tim knew where to look.

"No contact at all?"

Raylan shook his head. "How long did you watch her?"

"Long enough to have a couple ideas. You want me to come with you?"

"It'd probably be easiest," Raylan agreed. "You carrying?"

"Don't think I'm allowed. The Marshals Service is worried I'll shoot you."

Raylan raised his eyebrows and grinned. "I guess you'll just have to borrow one of mine then if a situation arises."

"This is what I love about my job," Tim drawled, "the rampant irony."

* * *

 


	18. Chapter 18

 

* * *

"She has a boyfriend?" Raylan interrupted Tim mid-sentence. "Shit, I didn't want to know that."

"See, you are starting to sound like Art. How old's the baby?"

"Tim," Raylan said through his teeth, "not now. Tell me about the boyfriend."

"He's a tattooed little shit," Tim said succinctly.

"You're a tattooed little shit," Raylan replied. "Could you be more specific?"

"I'm not as tattooed, nor as much of a shit. And I don't do heroin. Is that specific enough?" The sarcasm was a summer cloud, floating lightly in the air and weighing in at a ton.

"Shit," Raylan said again more emphatically, almost running a stop sign. "Are they having sex?"

Tim looked over, incredulous. "I don't know. Probably. She's sixteen, Raylan, and likely attractive when she's not frowning. What were you doing at that age, bored in Harlan?"

"Shit," he said a third time, remembering. "And he's doing heroin?"

"As far as I can tell, he only smokes it."

"Small mercies," Raylan exclaimed, feeling in every word. "I hate this."

"Raylan, you are not going to change her life showing up on her doorstep once every three months. She needs…"

"Tim," Raylan interrupted again, "I don't need to hear your opinion on the state of Loretta's affairs."

Tim threw up his hands and focused on the street, watching for the apartment. They didn't speak again until Tim pointed and said, "There it is. Pull up here."

Raylan complied and peered out the windshield. "Which one?" he demanded.

"Green door. I'm pretty sure it's up the stairs."

"Stay here," Raylan ordered. "You're still on suspension. I don't want to make it worse for you."

"You couldn't," he sighed quietly, as Raylan stepped out of the car. Tim hated the reminder and deliberately pushed the creeping thoughts of Tom Yoder out of his head.

Raylan trotted across the street and tried the door. It was open. Tim watched him step through and twitched, responding physically to not being there to provide backup. He shook his head but couldn't shake the training. Being left on the sidelines twisted up his stomach. He waited until the fidgeting started then opened the car door to get out at the same moment that Raylan reappeared pushing _two_ tattooed little shits and leading Loretta. Tim paused, leaning on the car door, then sat back and shut it again. Raylan had a handle on it and Tim was now content being a spectator.

He watched Raylan motion for Loretta to go wait at the car. She crossed her arms and dug in her heels. Tim smirked. Raylan adjusted his hat a little more firmly, meaning this was serious business, and said something to her. She shrugged and slouched across the street. She noticed Tim only when she was within a few feet of the car and had raised her head to get her bearings. They stared at one another, each a personal stew of bored, frustrated, jaded, and angry in different proportions.

She leaned against the back door behind Tim, crossed her arms, her mouth slipping into its frown and said, "I recall seeing you a time or two before."

Tim didn't respond.

She shook her head and blew out a breath, forty years old. Tim got a half second of amusement from it before she started talking. Loretta had decided to stir the pot.

"Those boys, all they want to do is smoke. They have no mind for the business at all. They go through enough chucks of my heroin supply in a day that they now work for me for free. If you can believe it, Marshal, I have had to get a special lock box in which to keep my inventory. They were stealing from me when I was out. It's a shame really. I took a real fancy to Jeff when we first met but I cannot allow that kind of activity in my organization…"

Tim stopped listening. A picture formed in his head of poppy fields in Afghanistan awash in red, the color following the harvest wherever it arrived in the world. Often it was children younger than Loretta working, carrying water down the rows, or old men, probably younger than Arlo but looking older. He remembered his first day out, Yoder leading his team, setting up to do over-watch for a patrol doing a sweep in a poppy field. Taliban fighters had set up an ambush knowing the coalition troops were in the area and would likely do an inspection of the crop. Everyone said he was lucky. His first day out; his first kill.

It was a fine shot, his first kill. Yoder had slapped him on the back and said, _You keep doing that and they go home._ He pointed over the sea of red to their patrol, down on one knee, firing back. It _was_ a good shot. He can't remember how old he was, twenty, twenty-one? Was it before or after his birthday? He can't remember. He remembers it was his first kill. He remembers the red.

"…the impression that I am boring you. Are you even listening? Marshal?" she snorted.

He looked up at her, blinked. "Sorry," he drawled, "I've got my bullshit filter on. Didn't hear a word."

Loretta looked like she'd been slapped.

"Are you seriously aspiring to sell drugs the rest of your life?" he said after a pause, deciding to engage. "Well, I guess it's an attainable goal since you're likely to die young doing it. And I guess someone somewhere will be impressed. Maybe him."

Raylan was giving the two young men he'd found in the apartment an earful and Tim indicated for Loretta's benefit the one who was cowering and looking for a rock to crawl back under.

"Unless, of course, you're doing it for different reasons than to impress someone," he continued. "Do you admire the people who put you in the position you're in right now? You're certainly trying hard enough to be just like her."

The angry look she turned on him made it clear she caught the inference. "Mister," she snapped, "I assume you are referring to Mags Bennett. Any similarities between her and me are purely a coincidence. I happen to have a particular talent for selling drugs. I doubt there's anyone better at it in Lexington. Honestly, do you see me as a beautician?"

Tim was for a moment stunned that she felt these were her only two paths, drugs or hairdos. Then he remembered his options at her age, mining or military, but she had access to resources unavailable to him.

He opened the door and got out, his movements slow and deliberate. He imitated her pose precisely, the crossed arms, the casual lean on the car, the downward turn of the mouth. When he was done, he turned to look at her, making sure he had it right.

He replied when he was ready, mimicking her tone and phrasing. "I happen to have a particular talent for killing men with a rifle. I _know_ there's no one better at it in Kentucky. Honestly, do you see me making a living doing that?"

She had turned her head to watch him pose and listened while he twisted her words. She was curious where this was leading, but distrusting of anyone's interference in her life. "Are you making a mockery of me?"

"No, just stating fact. Just because you're good at something, doesn't mean it has to define your life."

"The circumstances of my past have defined my life," she retorted.

"I could let the circumstances of my past define my life," he replied. "But I've gotten over pretending that shooting people is the only thing I can do. It's time you moved on."

"I can't." She was getting upset and worked to school her face back into its habitual frown.

"Well, then I guess you're going to have to put up with other people dictating who you are," he stated coldly. "A strong man defines himself _despite_ his circumstances, not because of them."

There was a pause then Loretta pushed off the car and faced him, disdainful. "Marshal, if you will excuse me. I don't mean to be rude, but I believe you think I am wasting your time."

Tim smirked and cocked his head at her, replied wryly, "Hell, you're not wasting my time. I wouldn't let you. He is." Tim motioned at Raylan. "I'm here for him. You're wasting _his_ time, but he doesn't know it yet. He believes in you. He seems to think you're smarter than you're acting, that you're going to make something of your life. Me, I just don't see it."

Loretta looked anywhere but at him. She was calculating and fighting with her emotions; Tim could see it in her face. She definitely was a smart girl, this one. He wished he could get her together with Miljana. Instead he did the only thing he could do, he pushed off the car and turned his back on her, leaving her to it.

She watched him as he got back into his seat, making himself comfortable. Then she turned her attention to Raylan, brows furrowed, frown deepening.

* * *

Raylan summed up his conversation with the tattooed little shits with a threat of what he'd do if he ever saw them around Loretta again. He pushed them back through the door and pulled it closed then turned his attention to the other two in his charge. He rolled his eyes at the scene. Tim was sitting in the car, arms crossed, stony-faced, distant; Loretta was leaning against a nearby lamp post, arms crossed, stony-faced, frowning from her hairline down.

_What now?_ he thought tiredly and jogged across the street. Tim first. He leaned down to look in the window. Tim raised an eyebrow.

"Thanks for your help," said Raylan.

"No problem."

"I'm going to give Loretta a lift back to her foster parents then I'll drop you at home."

Tim climbed out of the car for the second time, stretched and smiled at him. "Don't worry about it. I'll walk."

"Everything okay?" Raylan inquired, wondering what had transpired between him and Loretta.

"Just fine, thanks, Raylan. It's a nice day and I like to walk." Tim jammed his hands in his pockets and headed down the street.

Raylan watched him go, turned and studied Loretta a moment before calling out to her. She walked over awkwardly, her arms still crossed, guarded.

"Everything okay?" Raylan asked, feeling like a broken record.

"Just fine, thank you, Marshal," she replied, not looking at him. "I assume the plan now is that you're taking me back to my foster home?"

She didn't sound too happy about the idea, but that didn't surprise him. She didn't look like she was in a fighting mood either though, and that _did_ surprise him.

"Loretta, you can't stay here," Raylan stated. "It's not safe."

She shrugged and took Tim's seat. Raylan closed the door and drove her home.

* * *

 


	19. Chapter 19

* * *

Tim slipped quietly back behind his desk the following week, hoping to keep below the Feds' radar. Art conspired to help him, sending him on all the prisoner transports so when anyone called he could honestly say Tim wasn't in the office. Tim was grateful and all the other Marshals were delighted to take a pass on that particular duty.

The following week, Tim got a call from the Tactical Centre at Camp Beauregard.

"SOG," he said to Art, his explanation as he walked past him out the door.

"Call if you're going to be late for dinner," Art replied and returned to his conversation with Rachel.

Tim pulled up as close as he could to the SOG mobile command trailer at the scene. It wasn't his team prepped by the door. He climbed out of his truck and walked over to report in. He waved over another sniper who was already geared up, a Marshal who _was_ from his team, and shrugged at him, the question obvious.

"Hey, Gutterson," he greeted him. "They've got a guy pinned down in a building." He waved vaguely behind him. "Former military, presumed heavily armed, definitely dangerous. It's the guy from the federal manhunt. They're being super cautious. They called in extra snipers."

Tim stopped moving, maybe his heart did too, maybe he stopped breathing. He came back to himself, to the trailer when the SOG leader strode up behind him and slapped him on the back with a _Hey, Gutterson._

"Glad you could join us," he said, all business. "Suit up."

Tim turned to him, desperate. "I can't."

"Why not?" The team leader looked at him funny. "Why not?" he repeated impatiently.

"It's Tom Yoder. I know him. I can't do this."

"Oh shit, he's a former Ranger, isn't he?" he said. "I didn't make the connection. I'd've called someone else, just you were closest. I didn't think. Look, suit up anyway. We need eyes, right? You've got the same training as this guy. See if you can spot him for us. We can't see shit in there. Nothing." He walked off distracted, directing the human traffic.

Tim went through the motions, putting on his gear and grabbing a rifle. He headed in the direction they pointed, set up and stared down the scope. He knew what to look for. Yoder would try to break up his outline, disguise his silhouette, _if_ he were going to shoot back.

Tim couldn't say for sure what Yoder was thinking at this point. He started searching the windows, once, twice, a third time, methodical. Many of the windows were broken, another abandoned building, and the sunlight reflected back unevenly. Where would he set up? What would he use as camouflage? He spotted it on the fourth pass, a smashed main floor window, a table within, just a bit too much crap on it and a muzzle break, in plain view if you knew what to look for. Yoder wasn't set up to hunt; he was waiting for a frontal assault. And he would be patient and wait it out and it would be bad.

"Anything? Anyone?" his earpiece buzzed. "Gutterson?"

Tim swallowed dry.

"Gutterson?"

"I got him," he confessed.

The voice demanded a location.

"Main floor, second window from the left, beside the main entrance," he replied, hearing his voice in another mouth, not his.

"I can't see him. Are you sure?"

Tim nodded absently.

"Gutterson, are you sure?"

"Yes!" he snapped.

"Hold tight," the team leader ordered. "Keep an eye on him. Anyone else see this?"

He kept on eye on the muzzle but his thoughts wandered to the target, the man behind the rifle. Tim remembered distinctly the last time he saw Tom before they were both back in the world, the last time they were together before he shipped home. He had a story for Tom Yoder and it crept into his consciousness, stealing his focus as he stared down the scope.

_Pete bled out in minutes, but there was no time to think about it._ The firefight following the explosion was intense. Tim left his friend lying in the dirt and collected the rest of his team, finding cover where they could.

The officer in charge was glad to have snipers with him and yelled for the two teams to find a good position to return fire, one at each end of the convoy. Tim's team headed for a broken wall at the back and managed to take down a couple of shooters before the first mortar round hit, too close. The Iraqi insurgents on the mortars worked fast, 'shoot and scoot' the troops called it, fire and run to escape a quick retaliation from the other side. The coalition forces were so good at targeting them now that they rarely got off more than one round. But this was a coordinated attack and the Iraqis had brought more than one mortar team with them.

Tim yelled to reposition, anticipating being targeted again. The second round took out the wall. Tim was the last to leave after yelling orders and was knocked flat. Yoder later described what happened, the chunk of flying concrete that laid Tim out. He said it was like the Roadrunner Show and Tim was the Coyote.

Tim came around stunned, face down in the dust. He struggled to his feet and fell to his knees when a giant hand picked up the side of the sandbox he was playing in and tipped it, toppling him over. Two or three times he attempted standing, each time tipping, each time back on his knees. He remembered recreating the feeling from that day in a bar brawl in Georgia, getting his head smashed into a stool, stupid drunk, the floor tilting and spinning. Only here, every time he fell he heard rounds skimming past, hitting dirt nearby. His only thought was that someone should teach the fuckers how to shoot. He was an easy target exposed like that, easier than Pete had been. He might have welcomed it. There was no reason to miss.

Then Yoder was there, where he wasn't supposed to be, picking him forcefully up off the ground, yelling at him to invite him on the booze cruise next time and stop hogging all the fun, laughing, dragging him to cover. There was a frenzy of rifle fire from the frustrated enemy, watching their prey escape, and Yoder's pack took two hits. They killed a water bottle and wounded another. They both should have been dead, except by some miracle. The troops call the dead, those killed in action, 'angels', but that day Tim thought maybe there was a live one around, too.

The convoy limped back to base. Yoder managed to sneak a cold beer in to Tim awaiting a med-evac to evaluate his concussion. He sat with him a bit, providing what comfort he could, and company. He toasted Pete, stayed while Tim dealt with the loss of his friend then patted him on the leg and left when they loaded him on the plane.

_He was so shaken he never said thank you at the time, and so depressed afterward he never kept in touch._

"Gutterson!" the SOG team leader called again. "Take the shot!"

But Tim had a story for Tom Yoder, and when he got the green light he couldn't pull.

"Anyone else have him? Anyone?"

No one else could see what Tim could, the sniper hidden far back in the room, the spider in the lair.

"Gutterson, take the shot," the team leader repeated, how many times now? "I'm ordering you to take the shot!"

Tim turned away, pulled out the earpiece and sat against the wall, breathing heavily, sweating. "Fuck!" he screamed. He picked up his rifle and headed down and out onto the street. No one stopped him; no one anticipated that he would walk out the front, across the road and toward the entrance of the building where Tom Yoder was hiding.

"Gutterson!" someone finally yelled too late, calling him back.

He set down his rifle carefully, then pulled off his helmet, his earpiece, his gloves, dropping them as he walked, finally his sidearm, too. He let it slide onto the grass and put his hands out to the side, open. He saw movement behind the table and yelled back to the team, _don't shoot!_ He was convinced he could talk Yoder in.

There was a moment of absolute silence; he could only feel it since there was nothing to hear. Yoder stood from his hiding place when Tim was within fifteen yards, pulled his Beretta, leveled it and fired twice. Tim went down hard, knocked backward by the force of the rounds. He struggled to breathe, trying to yell, _don't shoot, don't shoot_.

It finally came out when his lungs took in air. "Don't shoot," he gasped.

* * *

The team mingled in the parking lot by the trailer, hashing through the bizarre events of the afternoon, congratulating the sniper who took the shot ending the manhunt. Tim was sitting in the back of an ambulance away from the celebration, down to a T-shirt, vest off. He hardly heard the instructions from the paramedic checking him over, something about x-rays, bruising. Detached, Tim watched the SOG team leader approach, face contorting, furious. Tim looked at him, catching the movement, then through him, defeated.

"What the hell was that?" the team leader yelled. "That was a monumental fuck up! You're done with SOG, Gutterson! Done!"

The paramedic flinched at the force behind the words and glanced up at his patient, but Tim didn't react, not at all. He waited, watching absently, until the man finished his tirade and walked away. Then he got up, ignoring the protests from the paramedic, got in his truck and drove home.

* * *

Art called her after the head of SOG called him. She walked through to the kitchen, anxious, spotting the empty bottle on the counter. He was out back on a chair, drunk, alone this time.

"Oh God," she said, "What happened?"

He just stared straight ahead, ignoring her.

"Tim?"

Nothing.

"Talk to me. You'll feel better."

"You know, this psycho-babble bullshit is starting to wear thin. It's like Disney after a day of being pounded by mortar fire." No anger, dead. "How's that for talking?"

It hit. It hurt. She walked back inside, paced the kitchen. _It's not about me, it's not about me_. If not for this, then what? Back outside.

"I thought you were leaving," he said. Again, dead. Again, it hurt.

"Wouldn't that be easy for you," she replied softly. She pushed it outside into the world where it belonged, let the grass soak it up. This was not about her.

She sat in the other chair and waited. He sat, still staring straight ahead, face closed, and tried to wait her out. She waited longer.

It was getting dark. His face crumpled and he slumped forward head in hands, chest constricting. This was what she was waiting for. She pulled her chair close, ran his hair through her fingers. His breathing hitched when she soothed a hand down his back.

He reached out, "I'm sorry."

"Shhhh," she hushed.

She moved to his lap, held him. He let her.

* * *

 


	20. Chapter 20

* * *

The following morning Art showed up at Tim's door, dragged him to the hospital for X-rays and took the medical report to use as an excuse when his deputy went AWOL for the next two days. By the third day Art decided it was time to show up at Tim's door again and drag him back into work, but Tim walked in from the elevators at his usual time, saving Art the trouble. He stood up to call him into his office, but Rachel cut across his view, walked around and leaned against Tim's desk, facing him.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He looked up at her, screwed up his face and sighed, "It was inevitable. I was an idiot, and arrogant thinking I could stop it from happening."

"Some arrogance is forgivable," she smiled, patted his head and returned to her desk.

Art didn't think he could top that, damn her, but he had other things to discuss with Tim so he waved him in. Tim walked over, closed the door and took a seat out of habit.

Art didn't comment about Tim's absence he just reached behind him and pulled out a rifle, laying it down across the desk. "The Feebs returned this yesterday. I had Ned in the armory go over it, make sure they didn't forget any bits."

Knowing how much it annoyed Tim that the Feds had kept his rifle so long, Art hoped it might cheer him up a bit, but Tim just stared at it, a funny, unreadable look on his face.

"Any idea why they kept it till now?" Art asked.

Tim chewed his lip. "They couldn't trace its origins."

"Can you?"

Tim shook his head, no.

"Doesn't that concern you?" Art pried.

"No."

"Okay." Art let it drop. He had learned to control his curiosity, a bureau chief's survival tactic. He moved to the next item, the tricky one. "The folks at SOG didn't think you'd want to hear this, but I think you do," Art said carefully. "Yoder's rifle wasn't loaded."

Tim looked up, "What?"

"He didn't have one scrap of ammunition with him for his rifle." Art fidgeted with his reading glasses. "I thought you'd want to know that."

Tim nodded absently. The implications of the statement didn't sink in, not then. Later he'd make sense of it and be grateful for the information.

"His handgun was loaded though, as you discovered," Art added, looking for something to say to fill the gap. He didn't want Tim thinking about it too hard just now. "How're the ribs?"

"I'm fine."

"Uh-huh." Art nodded at the bullshit, playing along. "He knew you were wearing a vest?"

Tim nodded again. Art was pretty sure Tim was right.

"Tim," he said, sitting up and leaning in, item number three, "the head honcho at SOG called, you know, what's his name. Unofficially, he admits they screwed up. Well, no shit. You warned them. I warned them."

"You warned them?" Tim interrupted, confused.

"Yes, I warned them," Art stated. "I called them as soon as this investigation turned into a federal manhunt and told them to take you out of the equation. You'd done your job. I explained your situation, told them what would happen. They put it in a memo. You know how well that works." He huffed and sat back again. "Anyway, he said that in consideration of your record and after careful thought, they want to offer you your position back. Read: they did a head count and realized they're going to miss your experience behind a rifle."

Tim opened his mouth to say something but Art beat him to it.

"I told him to stick it...in a memo and you'd think about it."

Tim nodded again, finally looked straight at Art and said, "Thanks," and meant it.

"You're welcome."

Tim stood up to head to his desk, stopped and reached back over for the rifle, his hand fitting easily around it in the perfect spot to pick it up balanced. He instinctively checked the chamber for a round, worked the action. Art flinched. Tim twitched a half-hearted smile at him and walked out.

* * *

Raylan's eyes moved restlessly, passing twice over the books and framed awards and diplomas on the shelf behind the desk. He slid the brim of his hat through his fingers, twisting it in a complete circle then lifting it up to put it on. He stopped the motion just short of his head when he remembered where he was and brought it down in front of him again, shifting his weight impatiently to the other hip. If the judge sitting at her desk was aware of his fidgeting, she ignored it, giving the file on her desk her full and weighty attention.

"And you want me to agree to another diversion?" She sighed extravagantly and looked up over her glasses at the Marshal, her voice deep, husky, imbued with sympathy or hardness depending on the word. "Deputy, a young man is in the hospital as a direct result of this incident. Don't you think enough is enough? Maybe next time somebody dies."

"Your Honor, the circumstances are regrettable, but if you read the testimony of the…"

"Cut the bullshit, Deputy. Just what do you think letting her off again is going to accomplish?"

"It'll give her some space," Raylan answered vaguely.

"Space for what? I don't understand."

"It'll give her space to get over what happened to her and hopefully move on," Raylan explained. He knew Loretta was running out of time, knew she should start being accountable for her actions, but he had saved her life and you couldn't do that and not feel responsible for it, too. He shrugged and waited, hat in hand, pleading.

"It's only because there is an experienced law enforcement officer taking the time to speak for her that I am agreeing to do this. But this is the last time. If her name comes across my desk once more, I'm giving her my _full_ attention. Do you understand me, Deputy?" she demanded. "You may not be doing her any favors here."

Raylan left the office with what he'd come for but without the satisfaction he was hoping to get with it. He gave a victory nod to the case worker. Loretta was sitting on a bench, eyes on the floor.

"Thank you," the case worker said distractedly. "Loretta, dear, let's get you home."

Loretta didn't move.

"Do you mind?" Raylan gestured to her. "I'd like to drive her, if it's all the same."

"I was hoping to have a talk with her."

Raylan raised his eyebrows. "A talk?" he said. "I think we're well and truly past that. Come on, Loretta."

She stood up and followed him out.

Raylan pulled up in front of her foster home, put the car in park and turned to the little girl who was now, he was letting himself realize, a young woman.

"Loretta," he said flatly, "I just bet my last chip on you."

She turned to him, a funny, unreadable look on her face. "I'm sorry, Marshal."

Raylan waited until she was in the door then drove back to work.

* * *

Raylan woke up early Sunday morning feeling restless. He got in his car and drove around, bought a coffee and a muffin and headed out of Lexington. He pulled into Fischer's range and in behind Tim's truck, finished his coffee and strolled around to the other side of the old trailer. He half expected to see Ellstin Limehouse but Tim was the only one there, lying prone behind a rifle.

"Is that a Barrett?" he asked loudly.

Tim pulled off his hearing protection and looked around.

"Hey," he greeted, looking surprised to see Raylan. "What's up?"

"Came up for Sunday morning shooting at the range, church, brunch," he drawled sarcastically.

Tim smiled.

"Is that yours?" Raylan asked, nodding at the rifle.

"Nope. Fischer's," Tim replied. "A bit rich for my paycheck."

"What, no .50 caliber donations?"

"I'm holding to hope, but not yet." Tim rolled over and sat up, eyeing Raylan, noting a scruffiness that the Marshal never wore in business mode. He made an assumption. "You want a go?"

"Maybe," Raylan grinned. "But first you've got to tell me, what's your secret with that thing?"

Tim cocked his head and thought about it. "I don't wince," He finally offered.

"Wince?"

"The recoil. It can hurt if the butt's not set right or if you've been at it too long. A lot of guys can't get over wincing, some even wince in anticipation. It hurts their accuracy. There's whole discussion forums about the problem." Tim was into it now and waved his hand back and forth as he explained, "They keep coming up with better rifles, better ammo, whole better systems to shoot farther, straighter. But the heavier recoil kills you. You'll always need time behind the scope to get good and stay good, and with the force of the recoil on your shoulder you've really only got so many shots in you. It's a Catch-22. Better system; shorter lifespan for the shooter. They need to come up with a completely different way of doing it. They're working on self-propelled smart-ammo now. That would fix the problem. You wouldn't need any practice and there'd be virtually no recoil."

Tim stopped and smiled, a little embarrassed, realizing he'd probably supplied more information than Raylan really wanted. "But where's the fun in smart-ammo?" he concluded. "Takes away the pleasure of a well-executed shot."

Raylan just stared at him.

"I know," Tim said wryly. "I'm old-fashioned."

"I was thinking more just weird."

Raylan came over and set himself up on the grass, glad he'd worn old clothes.

"Ever fired a .50 cal?" Tim asked.

"Nope."

"I'll spot."

Tim got down below Raylan's right shoulder with a scope. Raylan aimed and fired.

"Shit," he exclaimed, "that does kick. Where did that go?" He looked up over the rifle.

"Well, hopefully there aren't any cows out in the next field," Tim replied.

He fixed Raylan's position, gave him a few tips then made the call on sight adjustments. Raylan aimed and fired again.

"Not bad," Tim commented following the trace and watching the dirt kick up a ways behind the target. "You're on a pretty good line, just high. What's your secret?"

"I imagined it was Dickie Bennett."

"Just had to give you the right motivation," Tim chuckled.

"Why do you still practice on a Barrett?"

"Got to keep up the skills in case I get another shot at Dickie," Tim answered seriously.

"I thought they determined that was a .308?"

"It was," Tim stated. "A .50 cal would've killed him." He looked at Raylan, measuring. "What would you have done if you'd found out it was me?"

Raylan countered, "What would you have done if you'd found Gary's body in my freezer months back?"

"You don't have a freezer," Tim drawled. "You hardly even have a fridge."

"Are you being obtuse on purpose?"

"Well I know how much you like it," Tim replied. He grinned wickedly and added, "They still haven't closed the file on Dickie, you know. Not enough evidence to tie it in to the other shootings."

"So, was it you then?"

"I'm going to continue being a tattooed little shit and not answer," Tim turned and looked down range. "Take another shot but this time..."

It took a few tries but eventually Raylan hit the target. He sat up stiffly and stretched.

"Nice shot," Tim congratulated him.

"That's enough for me. I'm more of a handgun/shotgun guy and I think I'd like to keep it that way."

"I'll bear witness to that. I've seen you in action."

Raylan stood up and found himself an old lawn chair, got comfortable and watched Tim put his .308 through its paces. By the time Tim got to the 800-yard target Raylan decided Dickie would've been dead.

* * *

 the end


End file.
